


Petals and Pining

by roughentumble



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt has Hanahaki Disease, Hanahaki Disease, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:35:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 49,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22904086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roughentumble/pseuds/roughentumble
Summary: Hanahaki!Geralt AU. Uh, I hope you like it!!! Excerpt:It isn't supposed to be like this. Witchers aren't supposed to feel like this. He's failed, as he always does, and now he's riddled with the ridiculous, cloying scent of buttercups. He aches, a little, somewhere deep, thinking of them destroyed.He lifts his foot and the petals are unrecognizable in the dirt. There's a sudden, acute stab of pain in his chest, his heart clenching at the sight. He ignores it, as always.Title suggested by by the lovelyyappingjaskieron tumblr.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 435
Kudos: 1993
Collections: Best Geralt





	1. Chapter 1

He wakes up with a sore throat.

It's... hm. Despite the witcher mutagens, everything that's been done to him, all his training, for every claim that he's naught but a monster-- he is mortal, underneath it all. He gets tired sometimes. He doesn't get ill, but he's experienced a sore throat. 

Plenty of monsters emit some sort of noxious smell, or toxic gas, and he can stand those things just fine, but prolonged exposure can leave his throat raw. In the same way he can survive a stab wound-- it will heal, and he can take more than most, but... he very much has just been stabbed. Being resistant doesn't mean there are no side-effects whatsoever. 

Or if he shouts, long enough and loud enough. He remembers being very young, and in a lot of pain, and screaming until his voice was hoarse. It's happened. 

And his witcher potions, too. They're not delicious, to say the least, and taking too many too fast is toxic, leaves his throat aching and phlegmy as his body tries to protect delicate tissue from the caustic substances(among other, much worse side effects.)

He doesn't get ill, though. He's never experienced this, exactly. Waking up, with a scratchy throat and a bit of a wheeze, no real explanation why. He searches his mind and comes up blank, no noxious stenches, no screaming, no potions, nothing. He swallows experimentally, and... Well, it's not an issue, precisely, he's felt worse pain by a mile, but it's just a touch sore, and he has no clue what could be causing it.

He decides he must just be thirsty, takes a few good pulls from his waterskin, and stubbornly ignores that it does nothing to quell the barely-there ache.

* * *

Two days later, he coughs up a small, yellow petal, and it's like the world is crashing down around him. So he does what any good witcher would do. 

He grinds it into nothing under his heel, snarling all the while, then takes up a contract for a kikimora that he's not prepared for in order to vent his frustrations with a sword.

* * *

He knows who they're for. Even as much as he tries to push the feelings away, as much as he wants to ignore them and deny them, and much as he wishes that maybe they were little purple things instead because lilacs would be so much easier, it's hard with her but at the same time it'd be so much _easier_ \--

But on every exhale is that floral scent he knows so well, curling around his tongue, pressing against his palate, overwhelming, stifling, and he just. _Knows_. Deep in his bones.

Jaskier is laid out on his bedroll, blanket discarded, curled up in a patch of sunlight like a cat, and he looks safe and happy and at ease, and Geralt knows.

* * *

He has to be subtle when he's around other people, especially Jaskier. Either avoid coughing altogether, or he hides the petals in his hand, wipes them on his pants.

Each time he coughs them up when he's alone, though, he destroys them. Grinds them, tears them, once he lights them with Igni, watches the flames dance and the petals turn to ash as his chest heaves, equal parts exertion and panic.

It aches, each time, but he buries it. He was not made to house such feelings, he knows this, and he has no right to entertain them further.

* * *

"Did something happen during the last contract?"

Geralt's eyes flick up from the fire he's currently stoking to glance at Jaskier. He looks a little nervous-- or, maybe not nervous. Concerned? Human emotions are so difficult to parse-- but he doesn't break eye contact, searching Geralt's face right back. Geralt looks away first, in favor of regarding the campfire again. Despite his use of Igni, it isn't catching as well as he'd like. "No."

He's bad at reading emotions, but he isn't stupid. He knows why Jaskier's asking. Thinking about it puts his teeth on edge, has him glaring so powerfully at the flames that it would be a fiery inferno by now, if looks held such a power.

"You've been sort've... breathing oddly recently, is all. Coughing, occasionally. And witchers can't get sick, right? Not normal colds or anything, as far as I know. So I guess I was just-- curious." He's fiddling with a ring on his left hand, subtly spinning it around his finger. The action draws Geralt's eye as he tosses another stick into the flame. "And, obviously, a little worried for you. You're my friend, after all." Geralt tears his eyes away from the bard's hands and sets his jaw.

He's holding his breath in an effort to stave off another coughing fit, has been on-and-off for a few minutes now. "I'm _fine_ ," he grits out, letting out as little air as possible. If Jaskier had only continued his one-sided ramblings, Geralt might've been able to weather the storm, keep himself contained and distracted until the urge passed, but now it's nearly overpowering. He can tell this isn't going to be a simple clearing of his throat, either. Can feel the fullness of his lungs, the way it makes him wheeze around the intrusive flora. _Shit_ , he thinks, bites down on his own tongue to hold it back. 

_If I can get away_ , he reasons, an edge of urgency to his thoughts, _if I say I'm going to go hunt for our dinner, then he won't hear, he won't see_ , and the lie is on his tongue, he starts to stand, but apparently that's too much talking, because the next thing he knows he's back on the ground, doubled over, hacking violently into his palm. A floral scent, imperceptible at this stage to anyone but a witcher, fills his nostrils. His lungs burn as they struggle to clear his airways of the foreign objects-- _Though, they're not foreign at all, are they?_ He thinks to himself, a bit wildly. _I grew them myself._

The thought is met with no small amount of bitter self-loathing.

He's coughing so hard, he can't control it when one tiny bud, not yet bloomed is expelled from his mouth, landing at his feet. He missed his hand, and he doesn't have time to grab it off the ground, because Jaskier is already shouting, a shrill, alarmed, "Is that a _flower_? Geralt, what--?"

When the coughing spell is finally over, he spits on the ground in front of him. Four little petals join the bud. The sight of them causes a wave of rage that has him rocketing to his feet to grind them under his heel. It doesn't matter anyway, Jaskier's seen now, he wasn't fast enough or careful enough, and now it's all over. 

It isn't supposed to be like this. Witchers aren't supposed to feel like this. He's failed, as he always does, and now he's riddled with the ridiculous, cloying scent of buttercups. He aches, a little, somewhere deep, thinking of them destroyed.

He lifts his foot and the petals are unrecognizable in the dirt. There's a sudden, acute stab of pain in his chest, his heart clenching at the sight. He ignores it, as always.

He clears his throat and, in the process, coughs up two more petals. He hocks them at the ground almost violently, staring at the two little spots of happy yellow surrounded by so much phlegm and spittle. 

_Fucking disgusting_ , he thinks to himself. Of himself.

Jaskier has, appropriately, been freaking the fuck out. 

Geralt emerges from his own head enough to blink at him. "It's fine," he repeats, slightly hoarse.

"Fine? You're not _fine_ , you've just coughed up an entire apothecary!" Geralt rolls his eyes at that bit of exaggeration, but internally he's panicking. Jaskier saw. He _saw the petals_ , and now he knows, and maybe he doesn't know yet who they're for, but he knows Geralt is a failure of a witcher, knows he's weak and wanting, knows him down to the soul in a way he wasn't ready, would probably _never_ be ready to lay bare, and now everything would be different, and he might even _leave_ because what good is a witcher as a muse when he can't even-- "What on earth is going on?" His spiraling panic is cut into by Jaskier, standing to the side, looking rather obviously completely lost. 

_Has he not heard of...?_ Geralt's thoughts are tentative, nervous as he cocks his head at Jaskier, studying him. It's such an annoyingly romantic illness, it seems like the exact type of thing a bard would know all about, would love to weave into song. As he considers the man before him, it hits him none-too-subtly that this is a magical illness, and an exceedingly rare one at that. Maybe humans don't know about it. 

He doesn't look angry, or disgusted, or disappointed, just confused. And worried, as well.

The relief is instantaneous, and has him unclenching his fists and breathing deep. _He doesn't know. He doesn't know._

"Have you taken to munching on wildflowers while I wasn't looking? Saw Roach with her head in the grass and thought ' _oh, well, might as well give this a try too, she seems to like it so much_ '? Is it--" His tone shifts, suddenly, and his hands flit around nervously, eyebrows drawn together in concern. "Oh gods, are you _cursed_ , Geralt?"

"Hmm." After that adrenaline rush, he's a little overly lax as he absorbs Jaskier's words. _Cursed_ , he considers for a moment, _as good an excuse as any_. "Yeah. Curse."

"It-- it IS?" Jaskier nearly chokes, himself, he gasps so suddenly, shocked he seemingly guessed correctly. The questions come even faster now, a rapid-fire interrogation of _why wasn't he informed, when did it happen, why aren't they on their way to fix it, why does Geralt have to be such a stubborn ass all the time_ , continuing on until he's practically blue in the face.

"Simple one." He explains, when Jaskier stops to take a breath. "It'll run its course."

"Run its course?" Jaskier repeats. "What does that even _mean_?"

"It's like a speech hex." He doesn't elaborate. Allows Jaskier to fill in the gaps himself.

"So speech hexes... They don't last long?" He gets a grunt in response, which he interprets as confirmation. "Alright... Alright. Well. I suppose that makes sense. They're both about mouths, throats, what comes out of them. Makes sense they'd act the same. And if it'll eventually stop... that explains why we're not running to go get it fixed right now..." He's half speaking to Geralt, and half mumbling to himself, running through the particulars, glancing at Geralt for confirmation that he's getting everything right.

He does not explain that, yes, it _will_ stop, eventually, but only insofar as his corpse won't be spitting out floral arrangements on its own. Without outside intervention, it'll stop when he dies and no sooner.

Jaskier trusts him so much. Trusts him to know about this sort of thing so much. When it comes to matters of magic and monsters, he may ask for clarification or further information, but he never really questions what Geralt's told him. It makes the lie so much more bitter on his tongue.

But the thought of Jaskier knowing about... _this_ , has him sweating under his armor and his stomach twisting itself in panicked knots. And, despite everything, he feels oddly protective of this little secret, too. He hates it, the reminder of his own weakness, he wants it to stop, but it's his. It's _him_.

'Him' is apparently a weak-willed little flower, which has his lip curling up in a disgusted sneer, but still. 

"Is there anything I can do to help, in the meantime? Make you some tea with honey, or, I have these candies I suck on, for my voice. They might soothe your throat." He says it gently, maybe a little hopeful.

Geralt shakes his head. "I'm fine." He says, for the umpteenth time. He ignores the small warmth in his chest at the thought of Jaskier caring, trying to help. Very much not a needed or wanted sensation, thank you. He's aware he's in love, he doesn't need these stupid reminders. But his chest aches all the same, little sprouts lining his lungs turning towards Jaskier like non-magical blooms turn towards the sun.

"Well then," Jaskier says primly, hands clearly still shaking but trying to move past it, "if you're truly fine, I think it's time we had a discussion about _sharing vital information_ with your _very important_ travel companion, such as, I don't know, _when you've been cursed_." 

He feels the beginnings of a smile start to tug at his lips, and he immediately schools his expression, turning around to stoke the fire, putting Jaskier behind him. He can't outrun his feelings, but Gods willing, he could avoid them.


	2. Chapter 2

"Is that why you've been so upset recently?"

Geralt looks at him, bewildered. "What do you mean?"

"Well. We were getting along just fine, then all of the sudden we were back to square one. All your walls back up, wouldn't talk to me. Is it because your throat's been hurting?" He looks genuinely a little concerned at that, hand reaching out as if to touch, maybe rub soothingly along his shoulder, maybe even alight on his neck-- but he flinches away, hard, and Jaskier has the presence of mind to drop his hand.

The problem is, Jaskier is absolutely right. Geralt _had_ gotten angry and pulled away because... well, not because of a simple sore throat, but what it represented. He was getting too close. He couldn't explain his reasoning to Jaskier, but he couldn't exactly deny it, either. He grunts his assent, despite how weak it makes him look. Better this weakness than the other, much more telling one.

Jaskier looks at him fondly, maybe a little sadly. "You could've just told me, you know. Our conversations are already so one-sided, I wouldn't have minded filling the silence a little more." His tone is teasing.

Geralt doesn't respond. Keeps his face neutral. 

He let this happen. He let things get too far, let Jaskier get too close. He resolves to pull away, put some distance between Jaskier and himself. Re-establish some boundaries. He can't get rid of the illness like that, but it's what he should've done from the start. 

* * *

It turns out to be harder than Geralt expected.

Jaskier is clingy and determined, as he already knew and expected, and while it's not difficult to snap at the man, each time he does Jaskier's features get pinched, his smile falters, and Geralt finds it exceedingly difficult to not apologize on the spot for each infraction. _Has he changed so much, in his time with Jaskier?_ He wonders distantly. Something soft unfurls in his chest, feels it sharply each time he lets his words fall overly-blunt from his lips, feels it stay his tongue against anything too cruel.

It's not Jaskier's fault, it's _his_ , and the guilt at blaming the bard for his own weakness, his own pathetic failings, eats away at him.

Geralt feels worn down, and angrier than ever at himself. He resolves to push Jaskier away with silence, instead.

* * *

Okay, so, maybe he _is_ stupid, because, honestly, Jaskier getting scared off by silence? In what world.

If anything, the lack of reaction seems to spur him on. He prattles on endlessly, strumming his lute and singing nonsense songs at the birds, and generally seeming in rather good spirits, despite Geralt looming away above him like a particularly grumpy storm cloud.

Geralt decides to tune him out instead, retreating into his own thoughts.

He's supposed to be better than this. Is this what emotions are always like? He feels heavy, weighed-down, unable to do what he knows he needs to. It'd be better for everyone if he just told Jaskier to fuck off, but he finds he can't bring himself to. 

The bard's voice cuts through Geralt's thoughts easier than usual, doing nothing to quell his rising frustrations. "What do you think, Geralt? Ugh, you're not even listening, are you? I should've known, always so rudely ignoring my best work."

Geralt is hit by a sudden, all-encompassing rage at his own inability to control himself. "Would you do me the favor," he says through clenched teeth, "of allowing me the privacy of my own thoughts for a single godsdamned moment?" 

Jaskier stills and looks up at him. There's a tense moment of silence, before Jaskier breaks it by saying a simple, "Sorry. Didn't realize I was upsetting you that much." There's a bit of an edge to it, something a little raw, but Geralt doesn't have time to examine it, because suddenly he's coughing into his fist. It's a brief thing, just a few rough, wet hacks, but Jaskier's gaze softens with sympathy. He remains silent, though. 

Guilt bears down on Geralt, but he says nothing in return. 

He can't establish boundaries properly, and he can't ignore or silence the bard without feeling guilty, so he resolves to break things off with Jaskier once they reach the safety of the next town. 

* * *

Which, now that he thinks about it, is what he should've been doing anyway, so even though it makes his chest ache, he strengthens his resolve. Witchers don't have travel companions. This is what he always should have done.

* * *

When they finally reach a clearing and decide to set up camp for the night, Geralt finds his eyes straying more than he'd like.

Jaskier is moving around camp, quietly setting things up, laying out bedrolls and arranging stones for the fire. He's got this serious little crease between his brows, and if the moment weren't so thick and uncomfortable, it would be rather cute to see him so focused. He's sweaty from the walk, just a bit, and the hair at the nape of his neck curls a little more than usual, sticks in place. 

It's not anything special, but something about the practiced nature of it, the domesticity of it all, has a warmth blooming beneath Geralt's ribs. 

He gathers small sticks, tinder, the way he's in the habit of, one of the setting-up-camp jobs he's taken on as his own, and Geralt never does this but Jaskier looks like a kicked puppy, and he feels bad, and he's basically putting the final nail in the coffin of their... _arrangement? relationship?_ tomorrow, since the town is only about a day's ride out now, and he can't help himself when he lets slip a quiet, "Thank you," and--

Has his voice always sounded that rough? Is it disuse, or... the illness? It shouldn't be that rough already. He swallows hard.

Jaskier lights up, and says "You're _welcome_ ," very enthusiastically, and then looks like he wants to say more, but pauses. Sucks in his cheek, gnawing on it in an effort to stay silent. It's back to awkward again, but he's trying to be conscientious, clearly.

It's the wrong sort of silence, and Geralt doesn't know how to handle it, so he pulls away, stalking out into the forest under the excuse of finding them dinner.

* * *

It was simple work, scrounging up two rabbits for them to eat. Spring had just barely ended, leaving in its wake overflowing warrens and easy hunting, and Geralt was more than well-practiced by now.

He's on his way back when he's hit by a coughing fit so intense it nearly knocks him off his feet. He drops the rabbits and presses his hand against a tree, slowly lowering himself into a squat.

It seems never ending, his chest spasming so hard it aches, fingers digging roughly into the bark in an attempt to ground himself. Stars burst behind his eyelids and he gives up any pretense of coughing into his hand, pressing his palm flat against the ground to further steady himself.

The faint smell of iron accompanied by a sharp pain tells him that whatever's coming up has cut his throat. He coughs harder, and droplets of red fly out of his mouth, settling into the dirt at his feet, before finally, finally, a bud slips past his lips and lands on the forest floor. A small bit of stem is what's probably responsible for the nick it made on its way out. 

He snatches it off the ground, curls his fingers around it, ready to crush it like he has so many times before. Something tugs in his chest, though, and he pauses for a moment to consider it, still panting unevenly as he attempts to catch his breath.

They'll be in town, soon. And once they're there, surely the two of them will part ways. Geralt will give one final push, and Jaskier will have (rightfully) had enough of him, and Jaskier will walk away, and Geralt will be... alone again. His illness won't go away, won't stop because of some petty distance, but it's the right thing to do. Get his head where it should be, get back on The Path proper. Alone.

...No one there to judge him if he-- 

If he were to...

He uncurls his fingers slowly. Jaskier would be gone soon, and it might... it might be nice to... 

He just wants to be selfish. For once, just for one instant, he just... he wants something to remember the bard by, beyond fond memories. 

The bud is so small, only the barest hint of the tips starting to unfurl, the mere implication of potential, and the whole thing is stained pink from where it scraped at his throat on the way out. He's shaking a little, from the effort, and he leans to the side slightly, resting his temple against a tree. He's still staring at the little thing in his palm. He thinks, turning the thing over in his hand, considering it, that it makes sense for him. Even something as important as this, tainted by violence and pain and blood.

He can't have Jaskier, and he shouldn't have these feelings, but maybe... maybe he can keep this one thing. Just one. Just... just this one.

He swallows hard and, with shaking hands, slips it into his pocket.

* * *

The next morning, things are still a little unsettled between the two of them, and it hurts, but it'll be easy enough to work with, he thinks. Easy to push the bard away, under the circumstances.

It's nearing dusk when they finally arrive in town. It's a small thing, a little remote, but it's got both an inn and a tavern, which is nice. They head towards the tavern first, as they always do. Geralt is already planning what to say, either hard and cruel(which he knows his stupid, love-stricken heart would never allow at the moment), or perhaps something softened by lies(which taste bitter on his tongue but might go down easier with ale.) Something about "just until the curse is broken" or some such. Or he could simply try snapping again, Jaskier might leave of his own accord, and that would hurt, but it's... for the best, right? _Right?_

In any case, he's planning, right up until they walk into the tavern and things go quiet.

Jaskier is oblivious to the shift in mood-- or(more likely) simply knows how to play a crowd and is trying to get everyone to relax by acting jovial. It doesn't work, but then again, that sort of thing rarely ever does.

They sit down, despite his better judgement, and Jaskier flags down a serving girl. Her hands are shaking, and she shoots a look at Geralt with every shift of his body, like a cornered animal ready for him to pounce, but she goes and gets the ales and dinners Jaskier requests. The air is tense, but unlike their campsite, Geralt knows what to do with this one. He hunches in, keeps his eyes down; people seem to respond better when they can't see his more monstrous attributes. 

Conversation starts to pick up again, hushed and furtive, by the time their food and drink is placed in front of them, and Geralt resolves to eat quickly and clear out before he can make anyone more uncomfortable.

Jaskier is drumming his fingers on the table, clearly strained from staying silent for so long, and knowing what he does about the man, Geralt finds his restraint commendable. Geralt is already digging into his meal with single-minded focus, though, and if he had anything to say, Jaskier apparently determines it's not worth more than the bowl in front of him. Not that it ends up being much more exciting than what Geralt can manage on the road-- a town like this doesn't have a lot to splurge on herbs and seasonings. The soup is warm, though, and softens the crust of the stale bread in a rather satisfying way. Sometimes it's simply nice to enjoy a meal you didn't have to prepare, quality or not.

Jaskier shoots him a quirked brow and asks "Hexer?"

Geralt responds with a questioning "hm?" and tunes back into the sounds of the tavern. The men sitting behind Jaskier are talking about him, it seems. He's heard it so many times, it doesn't especially register to him. One of the men had, indeed, called him a hexer, and was insisting to the rest of the group _I'm right, that's what it is, that's why it looks like that._

"Small towns, out of the way, don't get a lot of visitors. The language changes. Their word for 'witcher'-- there are variations everywhere." He explains in a low tone, making sure he was quiet enough not to pull any extra attention their way.

Jaskier seems amused by this discovery about nomenclature, right up until he hears the man behind him pipe up again. "Shouldn't get too close to it," he warns the group, "them hexers, you can tell by the eyes, they're not human. They'll magic your mind away, or else give you mange." There are murmurs of agreement, and Jaskier's face gets pinched.

 _Mange,_ Geralt thinks idly, staring down into his mug of ale, swirling the liquid slowly, _been a while since I heard that one._ He takes a sip and sets it back down, returning to his meal, but Jaskier has stopped, clearly listening to the chatter from the other table. He lightly kicks Jaskier's leg and, when he gets back a startled look, glances down at the bowl and then up again, silently telling Jaskier to ignore the men and eat.

They're still talking, though, getting bolder, trading horror stories about hexers like they were Gwent cards, as if one wasn't sitting right behind them. There's something odd about the boldness of people who think him a monster, yet wave their hatred for him in front of him like it were a red cape and he were a bull. Then again, he also finds it odd that someone would try to incite a charging bull, and there's an entire sport centered around the concept, so maybe that's just a human thing.

They weren't entirely wrong, anyway, so who was he to get angry? Almost nothing they've said has been true, but as with all stories there is a kernel of honesty-- he's a monster. And monsters get turned into frightening tales to tell your children before bed. It was the way of the world. 

Jaskier doesn't seem to share his sensibilities, however. His hand is curled around the edge of the table, knuckles gone white from the intensity of his grip, as if physically anchoring himself against his desire to respond. Geralt kicks him again, a little harder this time, and he lets go of the table to get a death grip on his bread instead. Geralt wants to tell him it's fine, that it doesn't matter, but he isn't sure how to say it in a way Jaskier will understand.

"We should warn the women," One of them says, voice hard, "cause, you know, hexers, they steal children."

Suddenly, Jaskier is standing very noisily, the bench he was sitting on scraping loudly against the floor as he shoves himself to his feet, spinning on his heel to face the men. "You limp-dicked," and already Geralt is standing as well to try and pull Jaskier back, "backwater nobodies!" There's an offended chorus of shouts as they start to rise. "Geralt's never hurt a child in his fucking life, which is probably more than you can say. We're just trying to eat, you can't even summon the decency to allow a man a warm meal?"

"It's no man, it's a beast!" The one who had first called him a hexer is the one who speaks now, a lanky man with a patchy beard. His friends shout their agreement, but Jaskier squares his shoulders, staring down the group. Geralt's hand reaches out again, tries to grab him by the shoulder, but he ducks away, slapping at the offending limb.

"No, he's a human being, and more man than any of you! He would never, _never,_ pull the petty shit that you just did." His hands find his hips, and he almost seems like he's trying to scold them. "In fact, you're _lucky_ he's the man he is, because if he wanted it, you'd be dead right now," Geralt calls his name sharply, "before you even stood, and instead he just sat there and let you," manages to grasp the back of his doublet and starts to reel him in, but he twists in Geralt's grip, strains towards the group with his chin tilted defiantly, " _Let you_ talk shit about him. Because he's that much bigger of a man than you lot."

"We're not gonna' live in fear or bow to that diseased fuckin' monster!" A man on the lanky one's right is speaking now, face twisted with rage and defiance, but there's a wild sort of fear in his eye, now that the truth of Geralt's prowess has been shoved in his face. Which is why you don't _do_ that, that's why you don't mention that the tool made for killing is a killing device, it's an uncomfortable reminder that does _not_ need be said, and worst of all, it makes people fucking testy.

"No one's asking you to bow!" Jaskier sounds incredulous, voice going up an octave or two. "I want you to let the man eat in peace! It's not that complex or outlandish of a request! He's a person, a person who spends his days putting his life on the line to keep people like _you_ safe from the monsters of the world, has he not earned one single fucking night of eating soup in godsdamned peace?" And it's so ridiculous, so simple and earnest, his request. It's almost enough to make Geralt laugh, because, in a way, this is all over _soup_. Gods above.

He doesn't want to get into a bar fight, and above all, this entire situation is unnecessary and foolish. He's desperate to end it before it comes to a head. 

But... All of this so he could eat soup in peace. All over his non-existent honor. 

The sudden swell of love for his bard is so strong, so all-encompassing, that he only has a few moments of grateful awe before he's stuck in the throes of another coughing fit. 

The jeering is immediate. "See, we knew he was diseased!"

Jaskier is by his side in an instant, steadying him on his feet. "He's not _diseased_ , dammit, he's-- oh, what the fuck does it matter, not like you lot'd understand." He says contemptuously, glaring at them out of the corner of his eye.

Geralt's hand is clamped firmly over his mouth-- he's not letting any debris slip through his fingers this time. Not here.

A part of him wants to shrug Jaskier off, insist that he can walk on his own, but he finds himself genuinely stumbling over his own feet, watering eyes leaving his vision blurry, and he can't stop himself from leaning into Jaskier's touch. He allows Jaskier's soft murmurs to ground him, Jaskier's hand smoothing up and down his back like he's a particularly skittish horse. "Easy," Jaskier says quietly, leading him towards the door with gentle hands, "easy."

The men are still jeering, rather enthusiastically telling them to fuck off and get out of 'their' tavern. Jaskier doubts they are the proprietors of the establishment, but leaving seems like a fine idea anyway.

"Hey!" A shrill voice pipes up from their left, and the rather frazzled looking server girl pins them with a shaking hand and wild eyes. "You still have to pay!"

"Oh, for the love of--" Jaskier's eyes roll heavenward and he pats Geralt down, quickly locating his coin purse and depositing what feels like the right amount on the table, before ushering him out the door.

* * *

By the time they reach the inn, Geralt's coughing has subsided and he's spit out a mouthful of petals by the roadside. They pay for a room, which is far more expensive than it should be, but they're allowed one, which is a blessing in and of itself, considering the way the town's greeted them so far.

Jaskier is still huffing about the men who called him 'hexer' as they step to their room. 

Geralt is silent, letting Jaskier vent as he gets his things sorted. Locking the door, setting his swords by the bed, checking to make sure his pack is in order. He's lost in thought the whole time, slowly divesting himself of his leather armor and seating himself on the edge of his bed.

"--but you can't let people like that get you down, I suppose. There'll always be critics, you know, so you've got to keep your chin up--"

"Do you really think all that?" Geralt interrupts, looking up at Jaskier.

"Hmm?" He stops pacing for a moment, inclining his head. "Of course, why do you think I keep such a sunny disposition? If I allowed the whole world to crash down each time someone insulted my singing, I'd never be half the bard I am today."

Geralt shakes his head, waving dismissively. "No, I mean... I mean what you said before. At the tavern."

Jaskier truly pauses at this, turns towards Geralt more fully. "Of course, or else I wouldn't say it. Everyone deserves a hot meal, free of harassment."

He growls in frustration. " _No_ , not that. I--" He breaks eye contact, dips his head to inspect the floor instead. "...That I'm a person."

There's a heavy silence, and for a moment Geralt thinks that that's confirmation enough, but then Jaskier steps a little closer, speaks a little more softly. "...Of course you're a person, Geralt. Not just a person, but a good one."

Geralt lifts his gaze at that, meets Jaskier's eye, forces him to look at the most damning evidence of his inhumanity. "I'm not. I'm mutated."

Jaskier looks right back, never faltering. "A mutated person is still a person."

He's wrong.

Geralt knows this. There's no arguing it-- it's simply the facts of the matter. Jaskier is wrong. He's not a person.

...but gods, does the lie feel good to hear anyway.

Geralt can feel one of the pillars of his resolve start to weaken. 

He knows he should stop this now, but it's just...

It's really fucking nice, it turns out, to have people around who care, who want to stick up for you.

Who think you're a person.

And maybe he's just a monster playing at being human, a nearly literal wolf in ill-fitting sheep's clothing, but... he just wants to play a little longer. And he's already failed, he's already fallen off The Path, so maybe... he could just... have this a little while longer. 

Or maybe he was wrong, maybe the flowers haven't just taken root in his lungs, maybe they're in his brain as well.

All his previous resolve crumbles away to nothing under Jaskier's gaze. He reaches out, tentative, almost child-like, tugging on the hem of Jaskier's doublet to make sure he has his attention. "I... I've been... cruel, recently." His speech is halting and stilted, and Jaskier looks down in surprise. 

"Well. Certainly rude and snippy, that's for sure. But you've been hurting, so." and he looks understanding, and Geralt thinks of all the times that he's looked hurt over the past few days, and how pushing him away isn't working, and it's not like this is going to get the _bard_ killed, it's going to get _Geralt_ killed, and that's something he can live with. (For however long that is, anyway.) He's already doomed, and he just wants to, maybe, ease Jaskier's mind. Wants him to stop looking sad. So he says "I'm sorry," and it's short and awkward, but earnest.

Jaskier's face lights up, eyes crinkling near the corners. "Oh! Well. Thank you. Of course all's forgiven, dear witcher. Just, try not to take your pains out on me in the future, hm?" 

Jaskier reaches for his shoulder, and he flinches again, but after a moment's hesitation, Jaskier gives it a companionable squeeze, and it's lovely, and he realizes he's fucked.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, Jaskier wants to leave immediately, still in a huff over the town's treatment of Geralt, but the witcher makes sure to stop by the notice board and scan over it, looking for any contracts he could pick up.

"It'd serve them right, I say!" Jaskier crosses his arms over his chest, glaring at the board as if it had a hand in cutting short his meal, instead of simply being a slightly rotted pile of wood, sorely in need of repairs.

"It's my job." Geralt replies without looking at him, eyeing one notice that warns of creatures in a southern field, but doesn't make mention of a reward. "Need to get paid."

"As if we'd be able to recoup our loses in this shithole. They're going to underpay you, you know."

"And they deserve to die for that?" He rips the notice off anyway, folding it and tucking it away, mind made up to at least talk to someone about the problem.

"Well, _no_ ," Jaskier admits, "but you've turned down plenty of jobs from assholes. What makes this one so different, hm?"

He pauses, eyes roaming the board for any other notices that could promise coin. After a moment, he murmurs, "There are kids in the village."

There's a beat of silence, and then Jaskier bumps their shoulders together, smiling up at Geralt affectionately. "You big softie." Geralt makes a noncommittal hum and Jaskier laughs, bumps into his shoulder again. "There are children in every village, you know that, right?" 

Geralt makes another noncommittal sound, shrugging. "Not all villages. But yes, most do have at least one or two running around." He turns and begins to walk in the direction of the village ealdorman, hoping he could provide clarification, and possibly some coin for his services.

It's still early, the sun just barely over the horizon. Dew drips from damp grass onto cold soil, the last vestiges of night chill clinging to the air. Not enough for the morning to be classified as cold, but enough that it has Jaskier leaning in just a touch closer, savoring the easy body heat rolling off his travel companion as they walk in comfortable silence. Geralt lets him without comment. 

Poorly hidden behind the corner of a house up ahead is the crouched figure of a child. Couldn't be older than ten-- although Geralt isn't the best at judging human ages, finds it easier with griffins and the like. Her little skirts are rucked up in her hands, most likely a poor attempt at keeping them clean as she huddles in the dirt, trying to stay out of sight. Her face bears a portrait of fear and intrigue with the openness only a child can achieve. She creeps closer, one chubby hand dropping her skirt to clutch at the wall in front of her, craning her neck to watch the two of them a little longer as they pass by. 

Geralt ducks his head, trying to avoid scaring her any further, but he can see from the corner of his eye that she just studies them closer, curiosity piqued.

"Well, hello there!" Jaskier must've noticed the child as well. He stops walking and bends at the waist, hands on his knees, to get closer down to the girl's level. "Lovely morning, isn't it?" The girl squeaks and scurries behind the house, now that she's been caught, and Jaskier laughs lightly. "It's alright, you can come out and talk, if you'd like. We don't bite, I promise." 

He is suddenly, intensely aware of how this looks. Two men-- one of them a _witcher_ \-- talking to a child, alone, in the wee hours of the morning. Trying to _coax her into conversation_. A deep sense of foreboding zips up and down Geralt's spine. He grabs Jaskier by the elbow and tugs gently. "C'mon, we should get going." He says quietly.

Jaskier shrugs him off, apparently unaware of how bad this could be if literally anyone caught them. "Come on now, darling," he calls, and her head appears again, edging around the side of the house. It seems her curiosity is winning out. Geralt's on high-alert, eyes scanning the streets for anyone who might see and misunderstand. "That's it," he says, "come say hello."

Geralt says his name sharply and tugs one last time on his arm before the little girl makes up her mind and runs up to the two of them, skirt twisted in her hands again. Maybe a nervous habit as well, then. "Now then," Jaskier is all smiles, still bent over to talk to her somewhat eye-to-eye, "how's your morning been?"

She takes a deep breath and summons her courage to say, rather loudly, "M'name's Janey. Why're your eyes that way?" She bypasses Jaskier entirely, gaze locked on Geralt. Despite the bluntness of her question, and the way it makes Jaskier sputter, there isn't any cruelty behind it. Just simple curiosity.

With one final glance around to make sure there was no one else on the street-- and confirming it was, indeed, as empty as it had been a moment ago-- Geralt crouches down. He moves slowly, so as not to frighten the girl, and she watches him go, seemingly transfixed. Once he's on her level, he speaks quietly, further efforts to avoid startling. "I'm a witcher." He explains. "You might've also heard your parents call me a hexer."

She chews on her lip. "They called you that, yeah. They says, they says hexers steal kids an' eat 'em. You ever done that?" 

Jaskier inhales sharply beside him, but Geralt maintains her gaze. "No," he says, "I don't do that."

That seems to satisfy her, which it shouldn't, since no one would admit to such a thing, even if they _were_ eating children, but before he can say as such, she's back on the subject of his eyes again. "They're like kitty eyes."

Jaskier snorts, but Geralt just nods patiently. "Yes, they are."

"Can they, um," she makes a reverse pinching motion with her fingers, "do the, the kitty eye thing?" He cocks his head at her in confusion, and she elaborates. "Where they get all big at night. Can you make your eyes all big?"

"It's not night, and it's not a party trick." He says bluntly, and her face falls a little. "But,"

Before he can finish, her face lights back up, and excitedly she starts pleading, "Please, oh please, please show me!" She bounces on her toes eagerly.

A smile flickers across his face and he nods. "Just... give me a moment." Slowly, Geralt brings his hands up, poised in front of his face. "I have to make it dark." He gives one more glance-- still empty, still just them-- before placing his palms over his eyes.

In actuality, he could simply force his pupils to open wider, but that sort of thing tends to put people on edge. Behind the relative darkness of his hands, he can feel his pupils begin to expand, and he focuses on keeping them that way as he slides his hands back down.

It's too bright with his eyes like that, letting in so much light, but Janey gasps in delight when she sees them. "They're so big!" She exclaims, marveling. He nods in acknowledgement, and she grins wide, showing off a gap in her teeth. "Thanks, hexer!" With that, it seems her curiosity is sated, and she turns and runs off with glee. Apparently his eyes were all that had captured her interest.

Jaskier laughs, straightening up and waving at her retreating back. "Lovely meeting you, Janey!" He calls, and she turns around long enough to wave rather enthusiastically, with her entire shoulder, before scurrying off. "Certainly one way to start your day." He comments, smiling down at Geralt. 

"Hm." 

He rolls his eyes fondly at the lack of response. Geralt's eyes are still fixed on the place where Janey had disappeared around a corner, seemingly lost in thought. "That was nice, what you did for her." He says quietly.

Geralt shrugs. "She was a child." He says it as if that explains everything. Maybe it does.

"Yeah, but you still didn't have to." His tone turns teasing as he nudges Geralt's side. "You're a nice guy, and a big ole' softie." He sing-songs, and Geralt shakes his head, standing back up. 

"C'mon. I want to check out this notice before the day's over."

* * *

The ealdorman is, unsurprisingly, not very cooperative. It takes the better part of an afternoon to get him to agree to a price that isn't insultingly, astronomically low, and that's after some convincing that he should pay to get rid of the monsters at all. Jaskier is, by turns, irate and bored and then back to irate again over the prolonged encounter, but Geralt simply ignores him and continues to haggle, and eventually Jaskier settles back to tune his lute in the corner. Not that his efforts aren't appreciated, as he did try to step in on Geralt's behalf a few times, but keeping the contract open and the other party from throwing you out of town tended to be a delicate business, and one Geralt was well versed in.

He gets an answer as to what sort of monster to look out for, too. Not that the ealdorman knows their name, but the description leaves practically no room for other interpretations-- small, live in groups, burrowing, about the size and shape of a child. Nekkers.

The field, when they arrive, is idyllic and green, with little holes and mounds as further evidence of a Nekker infestation. It's right on the edge of the woods, as well. Lovely little spot, if not for the way you could easily get killed in it, currently.

It's a small infestation, anyway. Barely takes him any time at all. Even Jaskier looks bored from the sidelines. He flushes out some of the tunnel systems, but they're devoid of movement. Jaskier wanders over, places his hands on his hips. "Well, that was rather anticlimactic. I don't think even I could make that into a song worth listening to."

Geralt thinks of little Janey, able to play in this field now. The monsters vanquished, the sky cloudless and blue. Something about clearing the way for the laughter of children, maybe. "Hm."

Then he thinks of how she'd have to pick her way past corpses to do it. He wonders, briefly, if she'd still look at him with such fascination if she could see him now, Nekker blood dripping from his gloves. Maybe you couldn't spin the story positively after all.

* * *

The ealdorman pays them, and they leave town. They don't see Janey again.

Geralt thinks that's probably for the best.

* * *

"So, Mister Kitty Eyes," Jaskier says, grinning up at Geralt, "where are we off to next?"

Geralt grunts at the nickname, looking annoyed. "Watch yourself, bard."

Jaskier laughs. "Oh hush, I'm only teasing. Now, c'mon, don't leave me in suspense."

"East."

"Oh, well," Jaskier rolls his eyes as he strolls next to Roach, "that's so very descriptive. Thank you again for your continued eloquence."

"Anytime." Geralt says mildly, just to hear Jaskier scoff. "Shouldn't take more than a week or so to get there." A teasing smile tugs at the corner of his lips, and he gives a sidelong glance to his on-foot companion. "...Maybe a little longer."

Jaskier squawks indignantly. "Hey!"

* * *

After about four days of travel, Jaskier becomes desperate for a good bath. He complains about it nearly incessantly; his feet are sore, his clothes are damp with sweat, he feels grimy, he feels _sticky_. So, after setting up camp, when Geralt sets out to find fresh water to refill their waterskins, he decides to take Jaskier with him. He assumes that, if nothing else, they'd find enough water for Jaskier to splash on his face.

Instead they find a miniature waterfall.

The water is crystal clear, falling down in perfect little cascades, enough force behind it to kick up a light misting around the edges, but not so powerful as to knock you over. Not quite tall enough to stand under, unless you only wanted the water on your shoulders, but one could sit under it with ease. 

The stones underneath the waterfall were all large, but worn smooth by the current, with shallow divots perfect for sitting in.

The moss on the side of the river was lush, nearly velvety from the damp, misty air. 

The trees above provided ample cover, so any sunlight streaming down was dappled and soft.

A gentle breeze rolled past every so often, bringing with it the sounds of the forest and birdsong.

All in all, Geralt didn't trust it one bit.

 _Too damn picturesque,_ he'd said when they found it, but Jaskier was insistent. "Running water, so there won't be drowners, yes?" Geralt grunted. "Too small for sirens, too shallow for selkies." Geralt grunted again, unwilling to truly concede yet. 

While he'd never say as much, internally he had to grudgingly admit that he was impressed by Jaskier's knowledge. It was all rather basic, but it showed he'd been paying attention, listening when Geralt spoke. He felt a little warm, some small part of him pleased that Jaskier had bothered, touched that he'd held the bard's attention.

Dammit. Stupid _feelings._

"And besides!" he continues, grabbing Geralt's wrist to pull him forward. Geralt doesn't move. "We both know that I'm going to complain all night if I don't get a bath. And this is, quite literally, the perfect spot!"

"Exactly. Too perfect."

"Too--?" Jaskier looks incredulous. "You're a piece of work, Geralt, honestly." He tugs again, more firmly this time. "We're not going to get a better opportunity than this. You're really going to look a gift horse in the mouth? And also, what's the point of wandering in nature if you can't appreciate its natural splendor!" He throws his arms out when he says this, indicating the clearing.

He lets out a long-suffering sigh. They both know what's coming. Jaskier's eyes glint mischievously, in that way they always do when he knows he's won, and Geralt tilts his head back to study the underside of the canopy instead. "...Fine." He grits out. "Quickly."

Jaskier cheers and claps excitedly. "Oh, I just knew you'd see it my way." He starts peeling himself out of his clothes right away, laying his nice doublet on a nearby stone. "C'mon, shuck the armor already. I'll even wash your hair for you, since I'm so kind."

Geralt shakes his head, averts his gaze. "You first."

"First?" He pauses, chemise rucked up to his armpits. "What do you mean, first?"

"We'll bathe in shifts. Safer." He doesn't include that his thought process is that if something attacks Jaskier while he's exposed, he can defend the bard. Then, once he's bathing, if anything attacks, Jaskier could use the opportunity to run away. Somehow, Geralt thinks that plan wouldn't go over so well. 

"Aren't we here longer, though? If you'd just bathe now, we could leave sooner."

"There are pros and cons to both methods." He also, secretly, doesn't know how he'd handle both of them naked at once, considering his current... _emotion-y_ state. No, safer to just take turns.

"And you've decided there are more pros to shifts, then, hmm?" He sounds unimpressed. Geralt 'hm's right back. Jaskier laughs a little, shakes his head, sounding fond and exasperated all at once. "Whatever makes you comfortable."

* * *

When Jaskier first steps into the water, he yelps, jumping back slightly, and Geralt's gaze snaps to him in concern. "Well, I finally realized what's keeping it from being perfect. It's bloody freezing!" 

Geralt rolls his eyes and turns away as his heartbeat settles back into a normal rate. "Just get in the damn water, Jaskier."

He scoffs. "Bossy."

* * *

It takes a few minutes, but Jaskier finally adjusts to the water temperature, it seems. He sighs blissfully, scooting under the waterfall and tilting his head back so it can run through his hair. "Oh, Geralt," he says, each word a little breathy, "this is _divine_. Have you ever sat under a waterfall before?"

He wishes Jaskier would stop talking to him and just get on with it already. His eyes flick over when he hears talking, and he has to drag his gaze away. "Yes."

"You have?" He looks intrigued, leaning out of the flow a bit so he can hear Geralt better. "Was it anything like this one?"

"Bigger." His bare chest is _right there_. Geralt has to force himself to stare straight ahead. "I was diving for something. For a contract."

Jaskier makes an understanding sound. "Ah, so you didn't really sit under it, then."

"I was under it, what's the difference?" Geralt scans the trees for movement, determined not to look at Jaskier.

"There's a world of difference! One is simply your body getting battered by the elements while you fight to survive, whereas this would be relaxing and luxurious--"

"I don't need luxury. Now would you hurry up and get clean? It's all you've talked about these past days." He speaks through gritted teeth, fists clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms.

"Fine, fine. So snippy." Jaskier relents, begins bathing in earnest, but of course he continues talking. "You really are on edge, aren't you? What're you worried will pop out of the water, hm?" 

Oh. Oh no. This is so much worse. Jaskier, wet and slick and literally rubbing himself down. _What was his question?_ He thinks, mind gone slightly hazy. Right, "Anything. Everything." Does his voice sound strained, or is his mind playing tricks on him?

That starts Jaskier on a tangent about Geralt's hyper-vigilance, which thankfully he can tune out as he continues to act as the stalwart protector. Gives him a moment to center himself. He keeps his eyes open, keeps scanning the woods. But then he feels his eyes straying, and-- _just to make sure he's still there, still safe_ he tells himself-- his gaze lands on Jaskier. Guilt gnaws at Geralt, but he finds that he can't look away. 

Jaskier is lounging back as he lets the gentle but insistent water spill over his neck and shoulders, running in rivulets down his chest. His hair is soaked, mussed up and plastered to his forehead, his neck, the sides of his face. A pleased sigh slips from between his lips as he reaches up, letting the water's course divert to wrap around his arms instead. His hands grasp at the rocks above his head that the water tumbles over, rubbing over it just to feel the texture. Exploring simply for the sake of it, lazily indulging in his tactile whims. He lets out a little groan, tips his head further to one side so the water hits a particularly sore spot on his shoulder. 

He paints quite the pretty picture, spread out under the water like that, eyes closed in bliss, little damp curls sticking to his cheeks.

Geralt can't look away.

It's wrong, he knows it's wrong, he knows that if Jaskier was aware of his desire, the bard would be curling up and covering himself, but... he's just so beautiful. So open and inviting and lovely, and suddenly he wants so intensely his heartbeat is like a drum pounding in his ears, and his thoughts are a blur of _Jaskier, Jaskier, Jaskier_. His body takes a single step forward without his permission, desperation running through his veins like a wild animal. Jaskier cracks open one eye at the sound, and suddenly Geralt's lungs are so full. It's too much, too much, and he doubles over, petals and buds and half-opened blossoms tumbling over his lips.

Jaskier's eyes are fully open now, and he starts to move, concern painted across his face. "Are you alright? We can--"

"Just a coughing fit," he manages, sounding only mostly strained. "Happens. Keep bathing." Jaskier looks unconvinced, but after a moment he relents and slides back under the waterfall.

As he wheezes into his hand, kneeling on the supple moss, he finds himself rather grateful for the flowers, for once. They may be the reason he's in this mess at all, but they acted as an important reminder, and at the exact moment he needed one. Trust the universe to always know when he needs to be put in his place. 

He scoops up the flowers and shoves them into his pocket without thinking. If Jaskier sees him do it, he doesn't comment on it.

He doesn't look back at Jaskier for the rest of the excursion, and once it's his turn in the water, he scrubs down with a harsh, single-minded efficiency.

Needless to say, Jaskier doesn't wash his hair this time.

* * *

"You know, sometimes things are just nice." He says it so gently, looking at Geralt with such sadness in his eyes. "I know why you're so cautious. And I do appreciate how hard you work to look out for the both of us, try to keep us safe. But... you can just have a nice time, sometimes. Let your guard down a little. You don't need to live in panic mode."

"Yes. I do." He sets his jaw and meets Jaskier's gaze.

Jaskier is unrelenting, though. He waves his hand almost dismissively, steps in a little closer. "Yes, yes, dangerous life of a witcher and all that. I know. But... maybe just... not on high alert, then? Still keep an eye out, still watch for danger, but... not everything is an emergency."

Geralt looks away. Doesn't know how to say _if anything ever happened to you, and I'd been "relaxing", I'd never forgive myself._ Doesn't know how to show him how important he is. Doesn't know how to make him understand how easy it would be to lose him in an instant, at any moment, without bringing even more sadness into those bright, blue eyes. So instead he grunts in assent, and Jaskier lights up, brushes some imaginary dust off Geralt's shoulder.

"There, see? Not so hard, is it? Admitting your dearest friend Jaskier is right sometimes." His eyes are dancing with mirth and affection, and Geralt looks away again. It's too much. He's too close. It's too much. 

He grunts again, and Jaskier's responding laugh is everything.


	4. Chapter 4

Once Jaskier is asleep, Geralt takes the flowers out of his pocket. 

He'd picked them up on instinct, but now that he has a moment alone, he takes some time to consider them. His stomach drops when he realizes exactly what he'd coughed up on the river bank.

More complete flower heads than ever, each one whole and intact, each in varying stages of blossom. The most open one is nearly half-bloomed.

_Shit._

His thoughts start to spiral as he stares down at his hand. How had he not realized? Had he been that distracted? And the progression, it seems so _fast_. Is it fast? Is this how fast it moves in regular people? Was he right, before, to push Jaskier away, would that have stunted their growth, or was that the final push that accelerated their pace? Or does it matter at all, would they have grown this quickly regardless?

His thumb strokes mindlessly along the edge of one flower. He's a witcher, he should be able to handle the strain better than any regular human. He was able to hunt those Nekkers just fine, so... so maybe it would be alright.

He pulls his cupped hands in close, clutching them to his chest, and his body curls around them protectively. 

So the timetable got moved up a little. This is fine. It's fine. He curls in a little tighter, breathes deep. His exhale bears a slight wheeze. 

* * *

"So, is two weeks a short amount of time to a witcher?" Jaskier asks, idly strumming his lute.

"What?" Geralt squints down at him from atop Roach. 

"You said two weeks ago that your... _affliction_ would run its course. And yet, here you still are." He shifts a little, fingers dancing along the strings in a nervous habit. "I know you don't like to talk about it, but... I'm just wondering. How much longer?" 

Geralt stares straight ahead at the horizon. "It takes as long as it takes." _Not a lie, exactly._

"Oh, well, if it only takes _that_ long." Jaskier rolls his eyes. "Is it just guesswork on your part, then? And... I've noticed it's getting worse. You cough more often, you cough up more. I think... I think it's time we call it a bust and try to find you a healer of some sort, Geralt." He sounds so earnest. So caring, genuine worry edging into his tone.

Geralt can't find it in himself to look at the bard. He knows what he'd see. "It gets worse and then it gets better." _Bitter, bitter, bitter_.

There's silence. Then, "Are... are you sure?"

"Like a cold. Got to ride it out, then it's over." _Now that_ is _the truth, isn't it?_ His thoughts swirl around his head, insidious. _How long can you ride this out, before it slows you down and it's all over, witcher?_

Another beat. "Well... if you're certain, I suppose." He fiddles with his lute a moment longer, and when he starts speaking again, his tone's a bit lighter. "I have no idea how you can be so up-in-arms over a river, and so lackadaisical about this."

"Didn't know what the river had in store." This, though... he knew exactly what to expect.

* * *

The summer day had quickly given way to a cold night.

It's not entirely unprecedented or anything. It happens. The sun dips below the horizon, and without it to heat the earth, the temperature drops. Fairly basic stuff. But it's even colder tonight than either expected, and the wind whistling through the trees is sharp against their sweat-slick skin. What started as a refreshing relief now has Jaskier shivering in his bedroll.

It's a minor tremble, but Geralt can see it, in the line of his shoulders, the stiff way he's holding his body, even in sleep.

They'd pulled their bedrolls right next to each other, so Geralt could act as a windbreaker for Jaskier, and hopefully provide some body heat as well, but it hadn't been quite cold enough to justify sharing a single mat. Now, as the night's dragged on, the temperature's dipped even further. 

Jaskier is near enough to touch, but far enough away that Geralt would have to make the choice to do so. To reach across those final few inches.

Geralt noticed the irony and didn't much appreciate it.

The moon is full and bright and sharp in the cold night air. It almost seems to drown out the fire, everything pale and white under its insistent light. It drapes itself along the peaks and curls of Jaskier's hair, alights on his exposed shoulder, caresses his cheek. Every curve seems to stand out sharply like this, as if being pointed out and presented, highlighted for his viewing pleasure.

He'd be rather annoyed about nature conspiring against him like this, if he had the capacity for much more than stupid, love-drunk awe.

He takes the time to trace Jaskier's face with his eyes, soaking in details he feels he wouldn't be allowed in the morning hours. The way his lashes curl, fluttering against his cheek as he dreams. The curve of his jaw, his lips parted ever so slightly, the moonlight just barely kissing the dip of his cupid's bow. 

There's a single curl of hair on his temple, near his eye, and Geralt reaches out to brush it away before stopping his hand midair. Not quite touching.

What would it be like, he wonders idly, eyes straying back down to his mouth. Would his lips be soft? Would he lead or be led? 

Geralt's seen him kiss other people before. Has a bit of an idea of what he goes for. But those were all women, women he intended to seduce and bed and then leave come morning. He knows, because Jaskier has talked about it, that there's a certain level of performance there. Jaskier loves to perform, loves attention, so he puts on a show. Sometimes he's gentle, sometimes he's more forceful, whatever his current partner is more receptive to. 

Geralt is desperate to know what his little bard would be like, under the mask. What does he prefer? He will take charge if his partner's tastes dictate, but does he relish it? Would he grab Geralt's hair, angle his head how he wanted it? Or would he want Geralt to take care of everything, going needy and pliant in his arms? What would make him fall apart?

He feels a rush of shame, thinking about his friend so intimately. He goes to retract his hovering hand, but finds he can't move it. _It doesn't matter,_ he thinks, _because he wouldn't. Not with me._ Even if the bard would be demanding and forceful or needy and soft under the right person, it doesn't matter because the right person isn't _him_. 

The rush of images in his mind is unneeded, unwanted, unbidden, but he can't make them stop, it's like he's opened the floodgate and now he's drowning in it, because he just... he _wants_. He pictures Jaskier above him, looking smug and self-assured, and Jaskier below him, looking needy and doe-eyed, and Jaskier laying on his side next to him, laughing and smiling and fond and pulling him in for a kiss. Jaskier with wild hair and Jaskier in the morning, when he's just woken up, and Jaskier shooting him a secret little smile and a wink across the top of a flagon of ale as a private joke passes between the two of them, Jaskier falling asleep with his head on his witcher's chest, because he is that. He is Jaskier's witcher, bloomed for him like a flower, and he doesn't know what to _do_ with that, with the seed of love Jaskier planted in his lungs, because Jaskier didn't do it on purpose. He didn't do it knowingly. He just loves so openly and honestly every little thing he comes across that the witcher got swept up in it. And now he's left with so many little buttercups, and they're not Jaskier's responsibility, they're _his_ , and the guilt washes over him in waves, an undercurrent of it behind every image.

A quiet keening sort of noise rips its way out of his throat. Jaskier's cheek is so warm, and Geralt's arm is trembling from keeping it held aloft so long, not quite touching. He can't bring himself to pull away, but he doesn't feel worthy of it, of reaching out any further, of actually touching him. He's trapped there, by a man who isn't even awake to know what he's doing.

_No,_ Geralt thinks, _it isn't even that. It's not_ his _doing. He hasn't done anything, he's_ asleep, _this is-- this is my fault, I'm the one who--_ his thoughts grind to a halt for a moment as he turns his face toward the ground, as if hiding, ashamed. _I'm the one doing this._

Jaskier mumbles in his sleep, eyes blinking open just slightly, and he makes a questioning noise in the back of his throat. "Whass'up?" He slurs out, still sleep foggy.

Geralt freezes, suddenly snapped out of his self-pity, hand still hovering in the air above Jaskier's cheek. "There was-- a bug. Got it for you."

He looks significantly more cognizant at that. "Ugh, really? On my face?" He reaches up to swipe at his cheek, shivering once his hand leaves the warm cocoon of his blankets to meet the cold night air.

"Got it for you." Geralt repeats, because he can't think of what else to say. He withdraws his hand.

"Yes, thank you for that, my dear," Jaskier says casually, as if the nickname didn't make Geralt's world grind to a halt whenever he used it, "but Melitele above, is it freezing out here!" He shivers again, this time a bit more dramatically, and starts scooting closer, dragging his blanket with him.

Geralt is frozen on the spot. They've shared a bedroll plenty of times, even in the occasional inn, when there weren't enough beds to go around. But not once since Geralt had gotten sick. 

Jaskier either doesn't notice his discomfort or doesn't much care, taking his time in rolling over and scooting in close, arranging himself against Geralt and sighing happily once he was situated. "There. Much better." He chirps happily, apparently pleased at his position of little spoon. 

"I-- I might cough on you." His words are halting, choppy. Maybe a little bit thick with emotion. Jaskier was offering him a lot of vulnerability right now, and he was... he was so _close_. 

Jaskier scoffs a little. "Well, yes, I suppose you could. You won't do it on purpose, though, right?" He cranes his neck to peer over his shoulder at Geralt, who blinks owlishly back. He shakes his head, and Jaskier laughs a little, turning back to get comfortable again. "Thank you. And you can't control it, so I won't hold it against you. It's not like it's contagious or anything."

After an uncomfortably long stretch, he swallows hard and his hand starts to tentatively move. _Maybe... I could just..._ Guilt gnaws at him. They've done this before, but never with Geralt wanting-- or at least, not with Geralt _consciously_ wanting. It feels so wrong, like he's somehow taking something he shouldn't, but he just wants so badly, and Jaskier is offering it willingly. And he's cold, so... Geralt should help, right? 

His mind is a cacophony of _selfish selfish selfish_ as his hand hesitantly inches across to drape itself over Jaskier's waist. Jaskier responds with a happy groan, snuggling closer and pulling Geralt's arm so it's curled against his chest. "Gods, but you're hotter than a blacksmith's forge. Makes me wonder how you can stand to be under all that leather armor all the time." He tugs Geralt's wrist up until he can bury his face in it, pressing cold nose against rough palm.

Geralt's breath stutters in his chest, and Jaskier turns towards him slightly, concerned. "Are you alright? Coughing fit coming on?" Geralt shakes his head and he settles again, but doesn't tug so much anymore. "I'll try not to jostle you so much." He says kindly, smoothing a hand over Geralt's forearm. 

The minutes tick by agonizingly slow, and despite his newfound warmth, there's still vestiges of cold clinging to Jaskier's neck, his cheeks. Geralt knows he's pushing his luck, but he wants to help chase away the cold, so...

Just as slowly as before, Geralt starts to dip his head down. Inch by inch, as if it could end at any moment, like this might be when Jaskier jumps up and announces he's gone too far. He noses Jaskier's hair aside, letting his mouth fall open and his lips graze the back of Jaskier's neck. Then slowly exhales a gust of hot air along his spine. Jaskier, already halfway asleep again, makes a pleased sort of hum, mumbles, "You're a gift, you know that?"

_I'm not,_ he thinks as his lips brush Jaskier's spine with each exhale in a cruel facsimile of a kiss, _I'm really, really not._

(He doesn't get a lot of sleep that night, but Jaskier does, and that's a good enough trade, if you ask him.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence in this chapter. I updated tags n' such to reflect it, but just so you know, there's a fight in this chapter and blood n' stuff!!

They arrive in town the next morning and make a beeline for their notice board. This one has an actual contract pinned to it. Something's been stalking the graveyard at night, and they'd like someone to get to the bottom of it before someone gets eaten or flayed or other some such.

Reasonable, as far as requests go. Always nice to see a town being proactive. 

The town ealdorman doesn't have much more information, other than the sound of digging being heard, and Geralt catalogs that away, but otherwise leaves feeling a bit under-prepared. 

"So, what mean ole' monster's on the menu for today?" Jaskier asks once they leave his office.

Geralt shrugs. "Don't know, could be anything. Didn't give me a lot to go on." 

"But surely you have some idea, come on. It's probably not... a wyvern or something. So, what do you think? In your oh so professional opinion. What sort of possibilities are we looking at?" His eyes are sparkling in that way they do when he thinks he's about to get a glimpse into how witchers work, into the wealth of knowledge they carry.

Geralt's always been bad at truly saying no to Jaskier. So he sighs, says "Like I said, could be anything. Graveyard at night, plus digging sounds... Could be necrophages of some sort. Could be nekkers again. Some sort of specter maybe, like a wraith, but I don't know why it'd be digging. Might even be some sort of nest, kikimora or endrega-- not likely, though, there'd be a death or five already. Or it could just be a pack of wolves, or the trees scraping together at night."

Jaskier nods along, watching Geralt closely as he talks. "...You really do know your stuff, don't you?"

"Wouldn't be alive right now if I didn't." Is Geralt's gruff response.

Jaskier seems unbothered, a little skip in his step as he walks beside Geralt, smiling at his profile. "Well, yes, I know, I just... it's impressive, is all."

And, really, what's he supposed to say to that? 

He grunts in response and Jaskier laughs. "You'll have to learn how to accept praise _some_ day, Geralt."

* * *

They get to the graveyard mid-afternoon. It's quiet, still and peaceful in the sun, nothing more than a gentle breeze disturbing the nearby trees. 

As good conditions for an investigation as any.

The graveyard itself isn't large, and some of the headstones are mossy and cracked, but he's seen places in worse disrepair, which puts a bit of a dent in the wraith theory, but he keeps it on the table for now. In the center is a single, small mausoleum, surrounded on all sides by headstones, except for a thin, overgrown path. Not walked often-- either they weren't liked, or whoever would bother to visit is long gone themselves.

Jaskier mostly hangs back, sitting on the knee-high cobblestone wall that surrounds the cemetery with his notebook in hand, alternating between scribbling notes and compositions and watching Geralt search. It's one of Geralt's favorite arrangements, since it leaves almost nothing to distract him as he works, and, if he were forced to admit it... he rather liked this aspect of the hunt. The gathering information, tracking, investigating. 

He walks slowly, scanning the area. No obvious nests or mounds-- not insectoids or nekkers, then. It smelled faintly of rot, but then again, something had been digging in a graveyard, so that was hardly conclusive. He picks his way over to the mausoleum he noticed earlier. The inside is slightly cramped, fairly musty, but nothing is particularly out of place, except... 

"Claw marks...?" He mumbles to himself, crouching next to the crypt in the center of the space. On the corner, near to the lid, are gouges in the stone. Shallow, but present. He runs his fingers over them lightly, mentally running through a list of what could've caused them and why. He stands and gives the lid a little experimental push. It doesn't budge. The stone is heavy, and it'd take quite a blow to move it. Perhaps something was trying to get in and couldn't?

He walks back outside and takes a deep breath of fresh air. Now that he knows something had been in the mausoleum, he focuses harder on the entrance. It's hard to tell but... there, in the grass, a footprint. Too shallow to glean much, but it was heading left. Now that he knows what to look for, he spots more gouges on the wall, in the same direction the footprint was pointing. _It stalked out of the building, angry, and swiped at the wall again in frustration._

Snapped flowers, disturbed grass, and shallow footprints lead him to an open grave around back of the mausoleum. A casket lies open, wood warped and smashed, and the dirt was pushed aside haphazardly. It wasn't waiting for a body-- the grave had been disturbed. More footprints, these a little clearer. Humanoid, but long, with only three toes. The scent of rot, barely perceptible on the air. 

"Jaskier!" He calls as he moves forward, eyes glued to the tracks. He inhales deeply, trying to latch onto the faint stench of decay.

"Oh, are we moving already? Did you find what you needed?" Jaskier calls back, lightly jogging around the mausoleum. "Oh! Seems like you did find something."

"Hush." He shoots back absentmindedly, hopping over the wall with ease as he follows the footprints. More claw marks, like it had gouged the stone jumping over it. 

Jaskier makes an affronted sound. "Don't you tell me to hush!"

Geralt huffs, cutting Jaskier off. " _Shut up_ , or I'll leave you alone in the graveyard to fend for yourself."

He gasps dramatically, hand flying over his heart. "You wouldn't dare!" He pauses for a moment, noticing Geralt breathing more deeply than usual. "Oh, are you doing your blood hound thing?"

Geralt's eyebrow twitches at the name, but Jaskier dutifully quiets down so that he can focus on the scent he needs to track. He somehow manages to balance writing and walking at the same time without spilling any ink, which is a feat in its own right. Geralt almost hates to break the silence, but eventually his curiosity wins out. "What are you writing about now?"

"Trying to think of a less insulting metaphor than 'blood hound', for when I turn this into a song."

Geralt's eyes flash with rage, and he turns away from the tracks to glare at Jaskier. "You knew it was insulting, and you still called me that... _to my face_?"

Grinning like the cat that got the canary, and without a shred of remorse or repentance. "Go on, go back to your tracking, would hate for you to lose the trail now, have all this work to be for naught."

He manages to turn back to the tracks in front of him instead of strangling Jaskier where he stood, but it was a close thing.

* * *

They finally arrive at a ramshackle old house-- more ruin than home, at this point. Nearly the entirety of the roof is missing, and the boards and beams are all rotted, creaking in the breeze. The windows have all long since been shattered, and there's no longer a door. There's no movement, though, beyond the swaying of the trees and the gentle rolling wind. He takes a cautious step forward, past the threshold, and sees nothing living. Beyond the odd spider or two, huddled in the corner, anyway. 

Jaskier is hot on his heel, peering around his shoulder, trying to get a glimpse. His nose wrinkles in disgust. "Ugh, smells _awful_ in here."

"Well," Geralt's eyes sweep over the interior, double-checking there was nothing to pop out while he investigated, "something did drag a corpse in here." Jaskier shivers behind him.

There's not much to investigate, anyway. A stack of bones in one corner, a cauldron over a fire, what is most certainly a human femur floating in the rancid stew. Put it together with everything else, and you get, "Grave hag."

"Oh, lovely. What a truly delightful name." Jaskier puts his hands on his hips, examining the filthy walls. Upon closer inspection, one of the stains is most definitely some form of viscera. He steps back from the wall.

"What would you prefer, then, call 'em spring maidens? They're hags, they steal corpses from graves. Grave hag." He stomps out the fire with his heel.

"Would prefer if they simply weren't a thing at all, thank you very much." Geralt hums in agreement. "What are you doing?"

"Ruining her dinner." Geralt lifts the pot and heaves it outside, dumping out the contents across what might've, once, a long time ago, been a front lawn. 

Jaskier follows after him, face hidden in his elbow to avoid the smell. "And why, pray tell," he says, voice slightly muffled, "are we doing that? Won't that just make her angry?"

"Angry and hungry. Guarantees she'll be at the graveyard tonight." Geralt goes back and gathers the rest of the bones from the hut. Smashes each one and burns them for good measure, then wipes his hands off on his pants. 

Jaskier stares down at the cloth there. "You know that doesn't make your hands clean, right? They're still dirty. Please tell me you know that." 

* * *

They head back to the graveyard. It's still early enough in the evening that they have time to prepare, so Geralt finds Jaskier a hiding spot among the treeline that will, hopefully, keep him well hidden during the fight. Roach is hitched a little further back, so they can make a quick escape if necessary. Oils his blade, slowly and methodically. Comes up with a plan of action, since he doesn't especially want to fight the hag among all the tripping hazards that are headstones.

The whole time, Jaskier is humming and writing, and it's a pleasant soundtrack to his preparations.

He deposits his bag by Jaskier for safekeeping, and then goes to meditate by the gate.

* * *

"Youuu!" A hissing voice, rough and worn, announces. Geralt rolls his shoulders, slowly shifting out of a crouch. "You're the one, ruined my food!" Its voice is an unnatural thing, too much popping and crackling, like it was never meant to speak. Like it wasn't made for such a thing. 

"Yep." Geralt swung his blade in an easy arc, testing its balance, eyes never leaving the grave hag. "Gonna' do something about it?" 

The creature screeches and launches itself at him, but he rolls out of the way with ease, knocking it aside with a blast of Aard. When he slashes at its calf, the flesh cracks and sizzles, and it screeches again, howling in unexpected pain. It whirls on him, swiping furiously, and he dances outside its range, blasting it back whenever it gets too close, leading it a few feet away from the graveyard. 

His movements are easy, practiced, and he's so used to them, so used to ignoring pain in a fight, he doesn't even notice the familiar sensation starting in the back of his throat.

The hag isn't limping, exactly, but he can tell it's starting to favor its other leg after that first slice. It charges again and he feints, manages to catch it in the shoulder on the same side, before jumping back to get some distance between them. He takes a deep breath in, and--

Why is he so winded?

Why...

Oh no. Oh _fuck_. His grip tightens on the hilt, and he resolves to end the fight quickly. He jumps in on the next opening he sees, bringing his sword down in a wide arc. The cut's not as deep as he intended, and the hag gets a swipe in for his troubles, leaving his cheek a bloody mess. He's got to take the riskier options, though, if he wants this to end before...

He doesn't allow himself to complete the thought, throwing up a shield and diving back in, fully on the offensive now. He presses forward, swinging down with the intention of hitting the hag in the head, but it blocks the blow with its arm and roars in his face. It claws at him, again, and the hand bounces off once, twice, three times-- before Quen is shattering and the claws are right there, raking across his ribs. 

He jumps back, chest heaving, too fast, too fast--

One single, brutal cough tears its way out of his throat, and then he can't stop.

He knows, now, knows he's fucked if he doesn't get control of himself, but his chest keeps spasming despite his best efforts, and the grave hag is more than willing to take advantage of the clear opening.

He staggers back, but only a few steps, and then it's right there, right on top of him, wicked smile spread across its teeth. Its arm rears back, and there's still time, there's time to dodge back but Geralt is stumbling, chest still spasming, and he takes one more stumbling half-step backwards, and it's not enough, it's not enough. It arranges its razor-sharp claws into a vicious point, and with one swift movement, drives the hand directly into Geralt's side.

It slides home easy as anything, like his flesh isn't even there, like a blade through fog. Blood flows instantly and thick, like a warm, wet waterfall. His foot slips in the dirt, struggling to find purchase in the soaked soil, the left side of his body faltering from the pain. The stench is suffocating, overwhelming this close, her putrid corpse-drenched breath hitting Geralt's face in waves, overwhelming his senses. 

_Fuck,_ he thinks desperately, hand scrabbling for purchase on its forearm, trying to push it away, _oh, fuck._

The grave hag's beady eyes get even smaller, little crinkles at the corners as if truly grinning now, as it slowly opens its hand.

If Geralt hadn't screamed before, he does now.

White hot pain explodes in his side as it slowly scrapes along his insides. The sensation of a foreign object moving inside him has the world tilting on its axis, stomach churning, and he hasn't stopped fucking coughing yet, but now he tastes iron on the back of his tongue, staining his teeth. Its hand twists all the way around, then, agonizingly slow, its fingers curl up, claws grinding against bone before finding purchase. Holding him. It's holding him in place by his ribs, from the inside. 

He can't shove the hag off now, its grip is too strong. 

Pinned on the spot, like a butterfly on display.

His hand is still on its arm, as much leaning on it for support as trying to push it away, and it's just-- just fucking watching him for a moment, considering him. He rears back, brings his blade up above his head to pommel strike its forehead, but it meets his blow, blocking the attack with its arm and pushing him away. Its jaw opens wide, practically distended, and another wave of putrescence slams into his senses, smell so thick, so heavy, he can taste it past his own blood. Rot and shit and something sickly sweet, underneath it all. 

Its teeth sink into his right shoulder with ease. Even around the leather spaulder, the grave hag's teeth are sharp and vicious, sliding in as easily as its hand did. This is what the creature is made for, after all. Rending human flesh from bone. Its long, long, too long tongue is moving against him, undulating sickeningly against his flesh, wiggling its way between the gaps in his armor, and it's jaw is like a vice, sinking deeper and deeper. Something toxic and searing seeps into the wound-- the grave hag's venom. 

His grip on his sword goes lax then tight again, nearly losing it, and his hand that had been on the hag's arm flies up to grip at its shoulder as it makes a meal of him. His grip is weak. His footing is messy. He can't pull his arm back far enough to do anything with his blade.

Everything is moving slow and fast, all at once. He's disoriented, supported by it's grip on his insides. He can't use his sword. The dead weight of it makes his arm ache. He lets it slip from his grip, and the sound Jaskier makes from the treeline is pure devastation. He screams Geralt's name, and Geralt can see the moment the grave hag really notices him. It won't let go of its current meal when it's so easily devoured, but Jaskier is next.

 _No._ He digs his heels into the dirt, grits his teeth, _No fucking way,_ reaches down deep and pulls up an all-encompassing, righteous fury that sweeps through his system, steels his resolve, pushes his pains to the side. _You can't fucking have him._ Quick as a whip, he reaches for the knife strapped to his hip. It's not meant for fighting, it isn't silver-- it's just for taking trophies, after a job is done. But here, in these close quarters, it's all he has room for. 

He has to drive it forward, lean into it to get it to pierce the hag's skin, and it howls with rage when the knife connects with its side. He twists it in place, gets his other hand on the hilt so he can drag it across. It's agonizingly slow, and the hag releases him to stumble back before he can get very far, but he managed to get the blade in deep enough. Viscera shows through the hole, slipping free from its body, and even a monster has the sense to scrabble at the wound, attempt to push its intestines back in. 

He pants heavily. Losing too much blood. A new wave oozes out of his side, now that its hand is no longer stopping him up. His stance is all wrong, collapsed in on himself. The hag watches him as well, angry and hurting, the two of them locked in a staring match as they wait for their chance to strike. His vision is going in and out, _fuck_ , in and out, too much fucking blood, his side slick and warm with it. He keeps his eyes locked on the hag, though. 

Jaskier shouts, again, loud and piercing and frantic, and it cuts through the haze, forces him into the present just as it leaps and there, _there_ , an opening--

He lets out a primal scream and launches himself forward, both hands on the knife as he aims it up, up--

It screams back, a howl of rage, dodges him, but he catches its chin and slides home right in the underside of its jaw. It screeches and thrashes wildly with its claws, but Geralt weathers the onslaught, keeps it pinned in place. Then he pulls, down, down, down, jaw to collarbone as it gurgles, thrashing getting weaker and weaker. Its claws find his hands, scraping at his knuckles, but it's fading fast. 

The twitching slowly stops, and it becomes a dead weight on the end of his knife, so he pulls back, lets the body hit the ground.

As the adrenaline wears off, Geralt finds his hands shaking. Without the hag pinning him, without the rush of the fight to keep him upright, he finds himself without anything to support him, and he staggers. The world is dark around the edges, and everything tilts to the side very suddenly.

It didn't get Jaskier. He blinks up at the night sky and finds it blurry. _It didn't get Jaskier. I saved Jaskier._ The thought is calming, has his breath evening out a little. The fight is over. The grave hag is dead, and Jaskier is safe. 

He's safe, and currently falling to his knees by Geralt's side, shouting something. Geralt has to focus very hard to coordinate his lips and his mouth and his tongue. They all feel numb. "Bas..." He mumbles, head rolling to one side. Fuck, fuck. He furrows his brow, focuses harder, tries to communicate what he needs to Jaskier. "B-- ba... bags. Need'm... my... my bag." It takes a moment to get the words out clearly, but once he says it, Jaskier is off like a shot. 

Jaskier is talking, a lot, but none of it registers as anything more than white noise. Geralt tries to sit up, but the pain is searing when he tries, and it leaves his head spinning. His breathing is so shallow, little gasps in and puffs out, and it feels both like an eternity since Jaskier left, and instantaneous. "Mn... Gol... Need, uh... g- gol'en... an'.... sw'llow..." He swallows hard. His hands are so cold. They grip uselessly at the dirt. He can hear-- bottles, clinking together, as Jaskier digs around, trying to find what he's asked for.

"Go- gol... den." Can Jaskier even understand him? His mind feels sluggish. With great concentrated effort, he pulls his hand up, and manages to press it against his side.

The effect is instant, whole body going taut as a bow, a shout of pain working its way out of his throat. He coughs more, barely managing to turn his head to the side to spit blood and bile and little yellow petals out of the way. The pain is just enough to wake him up, and he manages to force out, "Gol. Den. Ori. Ole," through gritted teeth.

A thin bottle full of something yellow is in front of his face. It-- it's probably the right one, but his vision is swimming. The buzzing in his ears is louder, and where he doesn't feel cold he feels hot, fire under his skin. He nods, and all he can do is trust that Jaskier has the correct bottle. 

About half the bottle makes it down his throat before he's closing his lips, trying to turn his head away. Distantly, he thinks he hears Jaskier-- begging. Yes, begging, begging him to drink it, but as precious drops roll down his cheek, spilled, he tries to gesture to his wounds. "P... Pour it." It needs to go on his wounds, needs to get to the poison as quickly as possible, and he prays Jaskier understands him.

Something starts pawing frantically at one of his spaulders, so... so Jaskier must've understood then. He floats for a minute, just lets whatever's happening happen. Jaskier knows. Jaskier understood. It hurts, maybe, distantly, theoretically, but it's hard to actually feel it. "Sw'llow."

"There's none left _to_ swallow, I poured it all!" His voice is distant, muffled as if by a thick wool blanket, but it must be pretty loud and shrill to reach him in his current state.

"Bottle. Called.... 's red." He blinks, long and slow, up at the sky. Eventually, another bottle appears in his vision.

"Is it this one? Geralt, you have to answer me, I don't-- I don't _know_! I don't know which one you mean!" There's panic in his voice, and Geralt wants to soothe him, but his arms won't move. He can't tell if it's the right bottle. He hums in response.

There's a soft, frenzied ' _fuck_ ', and then the bottle is uncorked and poured down his throat. The hand on the back of his head-- _when did that get there?_ \-- is cradling him so gently, tilting his head at just the right angle. It's nice. Someone's asking him something, maybe. He fights to hear what's being said. "...one, too? Geralt? Onto your-- the, your side, and your shoulder, like before?" The question's too disjointed, and he makes little hitching sounds between the words that make it harder for Geralt to decipher. He hums again, unsure of how to answer. 

He thinks, maybe, it hurts when Jaskier upends the bottle over his wounds, but pain is still a distant concept. He tilts his head to the side. Jaskier's face is red from crying, cheeks wet and glistening, blood and dirt smeared against his skin at random. Geralt wants to soothe him, but his body is so, so heavy. He feels like maybe he's had this thought before.

He looks gorgeous. Even under all the panic, and the sweat, and the blood. Moonlight always did look good on him. Sunlight, too. Maybe he just looks nice in general, Geralt thinks idly, eyes sweeping over his face.

He tries to say ' _you look lovely_ ,' but it comes out so slurred even he doesn't recognize the words. Jaskier panics further, starts pawing through the bag again. "Is there another step? What else do you need?" 

Geralt shakes his head. "Goo...d. Di'... did good." Sucks in a deep breath, concentrates on his next word. "P... press'r. Pres... Presshure." After a moment, Jaskier seems to get the idea. He rips his doublet off and presses it against Geralt's side. It had been a rather lovely shade of blue, too. Went nicely with his eyes. "S'rry. Nice... Nice clothes. Sorry." He manages to mumble, and Jaskier laughs wetly above him.

"Of course, now you feel bad about ruining my finery." He shakes his head, leans a little harder. Even with Swallow, blood still seeps slowly from his side. "It's fine, I don't care, just... just be alright, okay? Just... Tell me it's going to be okay." His voice sounds thick with emotion.

Jaskier wanted something from him, but now that they'd done everything they could, all the steps completed, Geralt just feels... tired. He can't think of what he's supposed to say. Everything's floating. He blinks up at Jaskier's expectant face. "T... Talk t'me?" His eyelids are so heavy.

"Talk-- about what?" His voice is getting distant again. Geralt focuses hard on his face.

"An... Anythin'." So tired.

"I..." He flounders for a moment. Tears in his eyes. "Do... do you know anything at all about music theory?"

A relieved smile overtakes Geralt's face as he stares up at his bard. "Tell me."

He can't make out the words, but the cadence is lovely, sweet as any lullaby. He holds onto that as he slips into unconsciousness.

* * *

When Geralt wakes up, which he is mildly surprised happens at all, it's in a bed at an inn. His head is pounding, and the world still feels vaguely... floaty. _Still suffering from blood loss, it seems._ He thinks, head listing to the side to examine the rest of the room. 

Before he can take in much, though, Jaskier is shouting his name and launching himself at the bedridden man. The chair Jaskier had been sitting in clatters to the ground, and Geralt finds himself with a lapful of bard, talking to him rather animatedly. He groans a little, pain radiating from his side at the sudden jostling. It takes a moment for his ears to get into agreement with his mind, and the constant noise coming from Jaskier slowly shapes itself into words.

"...was so worried! You just stopped moving, you were barely breathing, you-- I had to go get Roach to carry you back to town, and I- I had no idea, _no idea_ if I picked the right potions because you were so out of it, so I was worried the whole time I'd poisoned you as well, and--" 

Geralt reaches up, slides a hand up and down Jaskier's arm, cutting off his panicked rambling. "You did good." He says quietly, and tears are welling up in Jaskier's eyes, now. "You did good. I'm fine." 

He'd meant the words to be comforting, but Jaskier scoffs, pulls away from him to stand and pace. "Fine! Fine, he says! You were fucking _gored_ by a _grave hag_ , and you think you're fine?"

Geralt blinks slowly. "...'S not goring unless it's a tusk or a horn." He supplies.

Jaskier looks down at him incredulously. "Oh!" He shouts, throwing his hands in the air, "Oh, well, in _that_ case!" 

Geralt winces a little at the rise in tone, head still sore, and Jaskier calms down a bit when he sees it. Picks the chair back up and pulls it next to Geralt's bed, sits down heavily. He reaches out and takes Geralt's hand, gives it a squeeze. "You and I," he says, more quietly than before, "are going to have so many words, once you're actually, properly conscious, mister." His eyes are damp again.

"I don't doubt it." Geralt says softly, squeezing his hand back. Sleep is already trying to pull him back under. His lids feel heavy. He gives Jaskier's hand another squeeze. And he must still be out of it, must've lost more blood than he thought, must still be pretty loopy, because he looks up at Jaskier and asks, "Can... Can you talk to me again?"

Jaskier huffs out a laugh, leans forward to rest his forehead on Geralt's uninjured shoulder. "I... I suppose I can, yeah. After you so rudely fell asleep in the middle of my last lecture, I suppose I should start with music theory again, hmm? You see, it's actually a bit of an umbrella term, it encompasses three different..."

Geralt lets out a pleased hum and closes his eyes, allowing Jaskier's gentle voice to lull him to sleep once more.


	6. Chapter 6

The first thing Geralt is aware of is the scent of sausage. Warm and savory and full of spices, it seeps into his mind, filling up the darkness. He's content to simply float, enjoying the smell, still enveloped in the inky blackness of a dreamless sleep, mind not quite conscious yet. Slowly, though, he becomes aware of a weight on his shoulder, a gentle jostling of his body. Then, senses coming back to him in stages, he picks up on sound. "..alt. I know you need rest, but it's been days without food. You've got to eat something." The voice is soft and pleasant, but insistent.

As if on cue, his stomach growls, followed by the sound of a snort from somewhere to his left. "See? C'mon, just long enough to eat something for me. Then you can rest more." He cracks his eyes open and blinks up at the ceiling, clearing his sleep-blurry vision. Jaskier, sitting beside the bed, looks relieved, smiling down at Geralt. "Good morning. Honestly, I was starting to get a little worried." 

Geralt continues to blink a few times, mind still settling into place. Lets out a simple grunt that has Jaskier laughing. "Ever the wordsmith, eh? Though, I suppose you have an excuse for now, what with the..." He trails off, eyes flicking down to Geralt's torso. Distress clouds his features for a moment, and he settles on a simple 'hmm' of his own, pulling his gaze away from the bandages there. "...Well. Anyway. Let's get you sat up so you can eat."

He nods and attempts to sit up on his own, but the simple tensing of his stomach muscles is enough to have him sucking in air through his teeth, head thrown back in pain. "Careful, now. It-- the wound, it's... it's deep. Just... here, just let me..." Jaskier reaches out, and Geralt only resists for a moment before leaning into his hands. Even with Jaskier's help, it takes a few minutes for him to get sat up properly, and his side aches by the time they're done.

Then Jaskier sets about placing pillows behind Geralt's back. He bristles a little at that. "I don't need coddling." He grits out, and Jaskier levels him with an unimpressed look.

"You had a grave hag's hand, her _entire bloody hand_ , inside you. Doesn't matter if you _need_ it, you're getting it." He leans away, grabs another pillow-- _where did he get all those from?_ \-- and tucks it behind Geralt's head with care. "There. Comfortable?" He's close, now, arms on either side of Geralt's head as he makes sure it's in place. It's... distracting. Geralt nods, just a little, and Jaskier smiles, something small and soft and deeply fond. "Lovely. Now, before the food gets any colder..."

Geralt eats with such speed and voracity, he surprises even himself. Apparently, nearly dying leaves you with quite the appetite. Jaskier excuses himself to go get Geralt another helping, and Geralt barely has time between bites to wonder if the bard had been playing for coin while he was passed out, to pay for these meals along with multiple nights in the inn, before Jaskier's back with more of the same plus a warm loaf of bread, and suddenly nothing really seems important beyond his meal.

They'd baked rosemary into the bread. Warm and soft on the inside, the flavor rich and woodsy, with the satisfying crunch of a good crust surrounding it, chunks of rock salt embedded in the top.

Geralt nearly moans.

He's not picky, he'll eat whatever he can get his hands on, as long as it isn't spoiled, and anything more extravagant than roasted rabbit is rare on the road... Plus, any coin he makes on The Path tends to go towards more important things, like fixing his armor or buying supplies, rather than into the pockets of a baker over a silly whim. Bread is bread, fills him the same whether it's studded with raisins or plain as a sheet.

So this is, admittedly, a bit of a novelty.

He wishes he could slow down a little, really savor it, but his hunger wins out, and the loaf disappears in a few generous bites. 

When he looks up from his meal, he finds Jaskier watching him, corners of his lips turned up and amusement dancing in his eyes. "Good bread, then?"

Geralt suddenly feels pinned on the spot and, though he'd never admit it, a touch embarrassed. "Food is food," he says gruffly, looking away, "I was just hungry."

Jaskier shakes his head. "You know, you can just admit that you like something. I'm sure it was delicious. It had rosemary in it, yes? That sort've thing's always nice."

"I don't need to indulge in every tiny fancy that crosses my path. Bread is bread. Food is food. As long as it isn't rotten, it's fine." He explains, eyes still turned away.

Jaskier inhales sharply and his expression drops. "Geralt," and his name sounds so sad in Jaskier's mouth all of the sudden it has him turning, looking back at his bard, "you... you think of _this_ as an indulgence?"

He shifts uncomfortably. "It's extraneous. Unnecessary. That's what an indulgence is, right?"

"But-- but it's just some fucking _rosemary bread_ , I--" He takes a deep breath, and his tone pivots from defeated to determined. "Well! In that case, I'm just going to have to get you used to this sort of thing, aren't I?"

"What's the point? They're just a distraction." Geralt shrugs, leans more fully against the pillows. "It tastes nice, yes, I can't deny that. It's not an unpleasant experience or anything. But, if you get too used to that sort of thing, you'll end up mourning its inevitable absence. Better to not get used to it at all." 

A mournful sound works its way out of his throat and he thwacks Geralt on the shoulder. "Just stop--! Stop saying sad shit and eat your breakfast, for gods' sake."

He doesn't really get it, what makes it sad, or why he shouldn't say it, but he nods anyway and digs back into his food.

* * *

Eating does seem to have done him good. By the time he's finished, he's fully awake, and his mind feels more settled in his body. Jaskier busies himself with stacking plates and bowls for easy carrying back to the kitchen, tidying. He checks that the pitcher of drinking water is still mostly full, that their bags are where they should be, that none of the blankets have fallen off of Geralt or slipped out of place.

Geralt watches him flit around the room anxiously, content to watch him burn through whatever this newfound energy is. After two circuits of the room, he finally comes to sit down on his chair, hands folded together, knee bouncing. "So," he starts, wets his lips, "you seem to be more awake now." Geralt nods. "Right, right, good... Geralt..." He sucks in a breath. "Geralt, we _have_ to talk about this."

Suddenly Geralt is very, very tired.

He sighs heavily, drags a hand down his face. "Must we?"

Jaskier scoffs incredulously. "Yes, we _absolutely_ must! Geralt, you almost _died_!" His hand shoots out to grab Geralt's, squeezing tight. 

"That's the job--" he starts, but Jaskier is cutting him off.

"No it is _not_ the job, the job is killing monsters, not letting yourself wander into battle handicapped!" Geralt bristles again, but Jaskier barrels forward, grip tightening. "We have to find someone, see some healer or sorcerer about this. We have to break the curse, or-- or get it removed, we have to do _something_ to get rid of it, before you end up in a ditch!"

It stings a little. Jaskier doesn't know what he's suggesting, but it still leaves a sour taste in the back of Geralt's throat, and he grimaces around it. "That's not an option. We just have to let it--"

"I swear on all the gods and then some, Geralt, if you say ' _we have to let it run its course_ ' to me _one more time_ \--"

"Well, what _should_ I say then?!" He shouts, yanking his hand away from Jaskier. "It's the truth, I have no other options. I need coin to live, I need to work for coin, so I simply have to work around this until it passes."

"But that's what I'm _saying_ , you do have options, you're just not taking them! You can't work like this, we have to get it removed." Geralt clenches his teeth so hard he can feel a muscle jump in his jaw, and still Jaskier keeps talking, "It's been weeks and it hasn't worn off, maybe something went wrong, maybe it _won't_ wear off on its own, and if that's the case, we need someone who knows what they're doing to fix it!"

_Fix it._

He's still talking, "That hag had her entire _hand_ inside you, Geralt, it was fucking terrifying, we have to fix this,"

_Fix it._

The phrase jumps out at Geralt, sticks in his mind, running circles. _We_ should _fix it,_ something insidious whispers, _fix_ you. _Everyone knows witchers aren't supposed to feel this way. You're broken. Got to fix the broken weapon that thinks it could ever lo--_

Geralt squeezes his eyes shut, slaps his hands over his ears, as if that would prevent the sound of an internal voice. Jaskier keeps going, misinterpreting the movement, reaching out to tug at Geralt's arms. "Oh, real mature, cover your ears because you don't like hearing that sometimes you do actually need help. I don't understand why you're _fighting_ this so hard! Just let someone help you fix the damn problem!"

And at that, Geralt just... snaps. "Stop, just stop, stop _fucking_ suggesting that, godsdammit!" He shouts, loud enough Jaskier's hands flinch away from him. He pants a little bit, and his throat burns and his lungs burn and his ribs are bruised from so much coughing and wheezing, and he bows his head with it, curls in on himself a little bit, and his side lights up in searing hot pain with the movement. But all of that is nothing, nothing compared to...

And Jaskier doesn't know. He's not saying it to hurt Geralt, he's not saying it because he genuinely thinks... But the reminder that his feelings are wrong, are bad, that he shouldn't have them, that Jaskier, _his_ Jaskier, doesn't want them, doesn't want _him_ , that he should just toss them aside like they're nothing...

It hurts. Gods, does it hurt.

Geralt is so very, very tired of feeling broken.

But despite the bone-deep weariness, he doesn't.... he doesn't want to stop feeling _this_. He realizes this with a sudden, sharp clarity. It's painful, and terrible, and likely to drag him into an early grave, its sharp and bitter and alien, and its the best thing he's ever felt. He just wants to have this. He just, selfishly, wants this one thing, and he can't convince himself to let it go, so...

"Please." He says this word so quietly, curling a little further in on himself.

"Geralt," and Jaskier's quiet now, too, voice laced with pain and confusion, "what--"

"To remove... this." He starts, head bowed, unable to look at Jaskier, "They have to-- they have to take away... a part of me. And its a part of myself I don't want to lose."

Jaskier is quiet for a moment. He scoots to the edge of his seat, reaches for Geralt's hand once more, tentative. "Like... like your foot, or like..." The pain in his eyes shows that he already knows the answer, but he needs to hear it. He needs the confirmation.

"A part..." Geralt wets his lips, and takes Jaskier's hand. Gives it a solid squeeze. His hand is so warm. "The part that makes me, me." He finally settles on. Close enough to the truth.

Jaskier looks wrecked as he squeezes Geralt's hand back. A paltry imitation of reassurance, but Geralt revels in it all the same. Feels guilty for taking comfort in a way Jaskier doesn't know about, could never suspect, but it just feels so good, and he's so weak. Such a weak person. _And a weak witcher is a dead witcher, so the lungs thing really shouldn't have come as a surprise, honestly._ "So. Please. Stop.... stop saying I should remove it. Removing it is easy, but I can't lose... I can't..." 

"Geralt, I am so sorry. If I'd known, I swear, I never..." Jaskier says, distraught.

Geralt nods. "I know. It's fine." He shifts his grip and his thumb finds one of the many callouses on Jaskier's hands, evidence of his mastery of the lute. He can't stop himself from swiping his thumb across it, feeling the difference in texture. "So. Like I said... removal isn't an option, so we just have to wait until it's over."

"Why didn't you tell me? You know more than you're telling me, about all of this, about how your curse works, and I just don't understand why. Just tell me what's happening!" He pleads.

Geralt stares at their connected hands. "It's mine."

Jaskier huffs, his tone bitter. "Oh, lovely, more witchery martyr bullshit. You don't have to bear this on your own, I'll help in whatever way I can, I swear, so just--"

"No. It's not-- I..." He stops, brow furrowed deeply, struggling to come up with the right words. "It's not _my burden to bear_. Well, it is, but. It's not just that, it's that..." He flounders, eyes glancing back and forth as he searches in vain for what to say. How can he explain something he doesn't even fully understand himself? After a long moment, he looks back up and meets Jaskier's eyes, desperately hoping that somehow Jaskier can read him, if he does this. "...It's _mine_."

Jaskier doesn't understand. Not really. But he can see the depth of the emotion there. This is important, somehow. "Okay." He says it softly, holds Geralt's gaze. "I... Okay. But if there's anything else-- anything at all you can share with me..." He hopes, desperately, that somehow, somehow Geralt can read how serious he is, if he does this. "Please. Just tell me. I swear I won't judge, I just want to know how to help you. We're friends, aren't we?"

Geralt lets out a little wheeze, breaking eye contact. "Yeah, Jask. We're... we're friends."

The silence is a thick, tangible presence between the two of them. Jaskier squeezes his hand again, tighter, like he doesn't know what else to do.

* * *

Eventually, Jaskier quietly slips out of the room, carrying the plates with him. Geralt leans back against the pillows, eyes closed, and just lets himself drift. He feels drained, any energy reserves he might've had taken up by his body attempting to heal. 

His almost-a-nap is interrupted by Jaskier re-entering the room holding a bucket of steaming water. He bumps into the door frame on his way in and curses, spilling a bit down the side and onto the floor. Geralt watches, amused, as Jaskier hurries to close the door behind himself and wipe up the mess. 

"What's the water for?" He asks as Jaskier stands and picks the bucket back up.

"Well," he says, setting it by Geralt's bedside, "I need to check your bandages. While I'm at it, I figure we should get you a little cleaned up."

Geralt's nose wrinkles. "No."

"No? Oh, well, since you said it so persuasively." Jaskier rolls his eyes, then his sleeves. "Like I said, I need to check your bandages anyway, and you've been laying in your own sweat for days. Can't be clean or hygienic, and it can't feel great either."

"I've just been lying here, I'm not dirty." He says defensively, scooting away from Jaskier's hands and hissing in pain.

"You haven't got dirt on you, no, but like I _said_ , you're _sweaty_. It's not good for your wounds. And you can't get in a tub like this, so we've got to do something about it. Not like I haven't seen you bathe before, either." He reaches out, gently fiddles with the hem of Geralt's shirt. His expression turns serious, little furrow between his brow. "Please. Just let me... I want to help." 

It's all he's been asking for, this entire time. Pleading for more ways to help Geralt through it all. Geralt swallows hard, stares down at his hand. He wants to be helpful so badly, and Geralt... Geralt is abysmal at refusing Jaskier. He nods minutely, then says, "...Alright."

Jaskier beams at him.

"Alright then, let's get you out of that shirt." Jaskier's hands are gentle, fingers cool where they brush against the sleep-warm skin of Geralt's ribs. He shivers a little at the sensation, breath coming in short puffs. Jaskier misinterprets the reaction, however, and slows his movements down further, trying harder not to jostle too much. Eases the cloth over his head and down his arms for him when they find that, between his side and his shoulder, Geralt can't lift his arms entirely above his head.

He sits on the edge of the bed, hip pressed against Geralt, leg tucked up under himself for leverage. Dips a washcloth in the warm water and starts on Geralt's face. "It's too bad I can't wash your hair like this," he murmurs, barely above a whisper, "must feel terribly stringy."

"It's fine," Geralt says, sounding only slightly strangled.

The washcloth smooths over his cheekbone, gentle and attentive. Jaskier still has that crease between his brow, the way he does when he really concentrates. Something soft unfurls in Geralt's chest, leaves his pulse fluttering, and he has to close his eyes. He can't look at Jaskier like this, not while bearing the full brunt of his attention. "I-- I can at least do my own face." He says weakly.

"You can't see the cuts there, so you can't be careful of them." He fires back, rewetting the cloth. He starts on Geralt's other cheek, mindful of where the hag's claws had slashed him. Geralt wants to tell him that he doesn't need to be careful, that he can take it, that it doesn't matter, but he holds his tongue. 

The minutes stretch on, and he keeps his eyes closed, world narrowed down to the feeling of the warm washcloth, those clever hands on his skin, tilting his head as needed. He leans into Jaskier's touch without meaning to, and is rewarded with those same clever fingers reaching up to tuck a strand of his hair behind his ear, out of the way. He can feel Jaskier's breath on his cheek. They're so close, so close...

He moves down Geralt's neck, then his uninjured shoulder. His hands pause once they reach Geralt's collarbone, near the edge of the first bandage. There's a heavy pause, and then Jaskier's leaning forward, forehead on Geralt's shoulder. "I just want you to be alright." He confides, washcloth balled up in his hand. "I... I think that's the most scared I've ever been on a contract with you." He laughs weakly.

"You've been in more danger before," Geralt says, trying for soothing, "she wouldn't have even spotted you in the trees if you hadn't screamed. And I never would've let it get to you."

Jaskier scoots even closer, plants his hand on the bed by Geralt's other hip for balance. "The most scared," he says it a little more firmly this time, more conviction behind it, "I've _ever_ been. I... I was scared _for_ you, Geralt. I really thought that you might..."

He doesn't know what to say. How to fix this, how to ease Jaskier's mind. "I never would've let it get to you." He repeats, because he doesn't know what else to _say_.

Jaskier nods against him, lets out a sigh. "I know. I know. Just... please don't scare me like that again." Geralt opens his mouth to respond, and Jaskier shakes his head. "Yes, yes, you can't promise that, it's the job, getting hurt. You don't need to tell me, I'm aware. I'm not asking for promises or platitudes, Geralt. I'm just... take better care of yourself. Don't rush into things, or ignore your pains. Please. Don't scare me like that again."

Geralt nods mutely, and Jaskier takes a deep breath, sniffling slightly at the end. When he pulls away, his eyes are shining, and he subtly dabs at them. "Alright!" He says, already pushing for a cheery tone, as if trying to move on from the emotionally charged moment. "Let's take a look at that shoulder, shall we?"

* * *

Just as Geralt's getting resettled against the pillows, there's a knock at the door. Jaskier's hands freeze at the hem of his shirt, having just got it resituated for him, and they both exchange a curious look. After a moment, Jaskier gets up to answer it. Geralt can't see out from his place in the bed, but he can see Jaskier's profile. He looks surprised. "Oh, hello. Is everything alright with the room?"

There's a shuffling sound, like movement. "We heard he was up, and we wanted to... to come see him. To talk, just for a little bit." The voice is deep, probably male, but Geralt can't tell much beyond that.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think he's really up for visitors at the moment." Jaskier speaks quietly, holding the door mostly closed, body angled to block whoever's on the other side from viewing Geralt. Protecting him.

"Please, it won't take long." A woman's voice as well.

"You can let them in, Jaskier." Geralt says quietly. Jaskier turns at that, peers over his shoulder at Geralt, as if to ask ' _are you sure?_ ' but after a moment he relents, stepping to the side. 

A man and woman enter the room. Older, with kindly faces, though Geralt isn't the best judge of that sort of thing. They step up to Geralt's bedside and the man sits himself into Jaskier's chair, easing himself down in the slow, calculated way someone does when they have a bad knee. The woman stands behind him, hand on his shoulder. There's a tense moment where no one speaks, Geralt waiting for them to state their business, and the couple looking unsure of where to start. "I'm Henry," the man says eventually, "and this here is my wife, Orla. We're the innkeepers here." 

"It's been a few days, yes?" Geralt starts, and the man nods. They must be running low on coin. Geralt runs a little mental math, nods right back. "Don't worry. We'll be gone in a few day's time." Do they have enough for that? He never had a chance to see the inn's rates. "Should still have enough coin for... two nights, I think."

The couple looks startled, glancing at each other. "No, it's... it's on the house. We didn't come to collect debts, witcher." The man, Henry, says, reaching up to place his hand over hers where it's resting on his shoulder.

He cocks his head, confused. "On the...? But--"

"We wanted to _thank_ you." There's so much emotion in Orla's voice when she speaks it catches Geralt off-guard, and he can see the way their grips both tighten.

"The hag hadn't killed anyone yet," he says bluntly, glancing between the two of them, "and you weren't there when I slayed her." There was a question hidden there, between the statements. _You weren't in danger. Why does it matter so much to you?_

Orla bows her head a little, presses her other hand over her mouth, and Henry takes a deep breath. "The grave she disturbed was our son's. Fell ill last summer." He pauses, unable to meet Geralt's eyes anymore. The atmosphere in the room changes immediately, like all the air was sucked out at once. Geralt goes a little tense at the sudden shift, at the knowledge that's been laid at his feet. "Thanks to you, we can go back. Rebury what was left behind. Visit him again."

"We have our boy back, thanks to you." Orla's voice is shaking as she speaks. "So... so, for as long as you need it, bed, food, baths... It's on the house."

"We just wanted to come thank you, in person, for what you've done for us." Henry says. "Didn't mean to worry you about costs or nothin'."

He flounders for a moment. "I... I can't accept--"

Before he can finish the thought, Henry cuts him off with a "Nonsense! We're not hurting for coin, and it's the least we can do." The both smile encouragingly at him. 

Something hot and sour curls up in Geralt's chest. _What a paltry comfort._ He thinks, face pinched as he stares down at the blanket. _I didn't bring you anything. You don't have to do all this. I didn't earn any of this._ He had desperately needed the safety of the lodging they'd so graciously provided, but it felt wrong, accepting it for something like that. For something so small, instead of something more important, like, "Suppose I made it safer for your other children, too..."

Their smiles turn a little sad, a little knowing. "He was our only." Ah. Shit. He'd been trying to rationalize it, make it feel like he'd actually done something to actively help these folks giving him so much, but instead he just made everything worse. Lovely. He mumbles a quiet apology.

"We had to try for years to get him. He was our little miracle, a blessing of a child. Always had a kind word or a sweet smile... and smart as a whip, too, Hammond was." Despite their tears, there's a fierce pride there, an intense love. And for one brief moment, Geralt is overwhelmed by how unfair that is. And it is so crushingly unfair. All that love and devotion, all that eagerness to bring a life into the world and nurture it, and they're the ones who lose it all? He sees in his mind all the faces of parents who he'd met that hated their children, hit them, threw them in the woods to avoid having to raise them, sees his own--

He schools his expression. That's the way of the world. Good things don't necessarily come to those who deserve it. It's all random, it's all chance. He knows this, has seen it countless times, and will see it countless times more.

He wishes, not for the first time, that he could do more. Be more.

"Thank you." He says, voice thick and sincere. "It may not mean much, but I give you my word we will not abuse your hospitality." It's not quite what he wants to say, but it's close enough, maybe. Something like, _This is more than I deserve._ Something like, _I promise to leave soon._ Wants to say, _It's not fair that you needed me at all,_ and _I might be dead right now without your willingness to offer me food and lodging,_ and _I can't pay you back. I'll never be able to repay this._

Underneath it all, it's something like, _Please don't kick me out yet. I swear I'm not a monster._

She lets go of her husband to reach out and place her hand on his. "You take all the time you need to heal, okay? It's our pleasure, master witcher. We're in your debt." And that's wrong, it's _wrong_ , because he wasn't doing it for their son, didn't think about the boy once, they don't owe him a thing, but he doesn't know how to say that, either, so he stays silent. Stares at their connected hands and feels... something shifting in his chest. 

When was the last time anyone other than Jaskier touched him without fear or disgust? She had no hesitation. Her grip hasn't loosened. It's firm and sure and completely unafraid. "Thank you." He flounders, unsure of what else to say, how to explain how deeply he means it. He drags his eyes up, looks at the two of them, desperate for them to know how sincere he is when he says it. 

Eventually Henry speaks up. "We should get back to work," he says quietly, and Orla pulls her hand away, "we just had to tell you that in person." Henry extends his hand and, after a moment, Geralt gives it a firm shake. Then Orla's helping him up, and they're both heading to the door, leaving Geralt dumbstruck. 

At the door, Jaskier gives Orla a tight hug. "I'm so sorry for your loss." He says quietly, and she sniffs a bit at that, but hugs him back just as firm.

"Thank you, dear. We're just happy to have him back." She says into his neck.

"We'll make sure to tell him about you two." Henry says, smiling softly as he claps Jaskier on the shoulder.

Then it's just Geralt and Jaskier, alone in the room again. 

Jaskier sits down on the bed, near Geralt's hip. Still staring at the closed door. "They were nice." He says quietly. "...I'm glad we could help them."

Thoughts swirl through Geralt's head, about what constitutes help, and what it means to deserve a reward, about the unfairness of the world, about how he really hadn't earned such kindness-- but then Jaskier is leaning back, gently pressing his shoulder against Geralt's, and his mind goes pleasantly blank. Just basks in the familiarity of Jaskier, lets the other man's presence ground him. His fingers reach out and tangle, hesitantly, in the hem of Jaskier's chemise. 

He must feel it, because Jaskier responds, leaning just a bit more heavily against Geralt, a comforting weight.

"Yeah," he says quietly, though he's not sure which part he's agreeing with. Maybe all of it. "Yeah."


	7. Chapter 7

Geralt leans against Jaskier's shoulder, other hand gripping the railing tightly. Making it down the stairs to the inn's first floor was a struggle, every step pulling painfully at his side, but after two days stuck in a bed, movement of any sort was a dream come true. 

"C'mon, almost there." Jaskier says placatingly, and Geralt wants to snipe back, something scathing about how he very much does _not_ need to be handled with kid gloves, but sweat is already dotting his forehead and there's a telltale itch at the back of his throat, so he swallows the comment in favor of a simple grunt.

"Should... should it be taking you this long to heal?" He says it quietly, a little nervously. There's only a few steps left.

Geralt sucks in a breath, leans a little bit more against Jaskier. Furrows his brow in concentration, then grits out, "The wound was deep."

He doesn't elaborate. His body's already strained, he resolutely doesn't explain, already fighting off the garden in his lungs, leaves him with less energy to spend on healing, means his body's already working overtime to fix something it can't. It's a vulnerability. A vulnerability he's currently paying for.

As if he can sense this withheld information-- or perhaps he just needs a better grip, and Geralt is getting paranoid-- Jaskier's hand on his waist tightens.

* * *

Eating somewhere other than his room is, decidedly, amazing, in Geralt's oh-so humble opinion. There's not many others at the inn's tables, so everything is quiet, and Jaskier had helped set him up at a booth in the corner, as is his preference. The food is warm and, most importantly, he isn't sitting in a bed. 

So engrossed in the simple pleasure of his meal, and the novelty of eating outside his room, Geralt barely notices when Jaskier slips away for a moment with some flimsy excuse that he only half-hears. He's just about finished when Jaskier slides back into the booth, looking rather pleased with himself, and Geralt makes a questioning grunt as he swallows his last spoonful. "What's that look about?"

With a flourish, and an overly cheery 'ta-da!' Jaskier presents a small strawberry tart. 

It's a simple one, just a small dish of pastry with a few syrupy strawberries piled in the middle, maybe about two bites worth of food altogether. Definitely fancier, and more complex, than the simple oatmeal he'd been eating previously. 

Jaskier is still sitting there, expectantly, and Geralt's brow furrows. "Did they... give you this?"

He shakes his head, places it on the table near Geralt's plate when it becomes obvious the man isn't going to take it. "No, I paid for it."

Geralt's brows furrow deeper. "We're already getting free food, why would you pay for more?"

"Well, for one," he says, amused lilt to his voice as he rests his elbow on the table and his chin into his palm, "you seemed to feel pretty guilty about accepting the free food. This is fancier, would cost more time and money for them to make-- it'd cost them more to give away. So, maybe, the fact I paid for it'll assuage your martyr-y conscience for a few seconds, which would be a record I think, and I do so _love_ breaking records."

Geralt blinks at him, then the pastry, then back at him. "...What's two?"

"Hmm? Oh," he waves his hand dismissively, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, "Two is that you deserve nice things."

Geralt stares at him, dumbfounded.

"You'd never admit it of course, but I've noticed you like strawberries-- your eyes always linger when we pass market stalls selling them. So, I figured... might as well get you something nice." His smile is soft, indulgent, and he tilts his head a little, as if appraising Geralt.

Geralt's mouth suddenly feels very dry. He looks away from Jaskier and the pastry. "I... I don't need it. I already ate. It's a waste."

"Wouldn't it be a bigger waste to throw away perfectly good, fresh food?" Jaskier reaches out and nudges the tart closer to Geralt, so it's brushing against his knuckles.

He stares down at it, mind racing so fast it might as well be blank for all the thoughts he can pick out. He has to open and close his mouth a few times before he's able to speak properly. "I... it's a waste of money, I mean."

"Okay," Jaskier raises a brow, nudges the pastry again, "I disagree, since it was my coin to spend how I please, and how I please is on you, at the moment. But, ignoring that, the coin's been spent. The strawberries are already in the tart, friend, I can hardly return it. And part of the cost is that you get it warm, so really, every moment you sit here in useless agony is another one of my coppers wasted."

It's not like Geralt is a monk. He understands the difference between good food and bad and doesn't find it a burden to partake in nicer things, should the opportunity present itself. Opportunity, as it stands, just presents itself very, very rarely, is all. And he sort of likes it that way, as he's said before. Less to miss, that way, less to waste time and money on. And Jaskier's gesture is definitely going to set a precedent, he can just tell. He doesn't need-- he doesn't _deserve_ \-- 

But it makes his stupid, traitorous heart swell a little, that Jaskier had been willing to spend money on him, that Jaskier had noticed... which is also equal parts mortifying, that he'd been obvious enough about his preferences that Jaskier had been _able_ to notice. He reprimands himself for being so annoyingly easy to read, but that ship's apparently sailed. And it _is_ a waste now to get rid of it, isn't it? Like Jaskier said, the coin's been spent, the pastry can't be uncooked. And it smells so good... 

He hesitantly picks it up, and Jaskier's grin brightens immediately. "Go on, now, it isn't going to bite you." Jaskier's tone is teasing, but he just looks so earnestly happy that his gift's been accepted, and Geralt melts a little further. 

He really does love strawberries, the sweet-tart flavor rolling over his tongue on the first bite has his mouth watering. The time he'd put off eating it had allowed the glaze and the strawberry's juice to seep into the crust, leaving it soft and moist, and Geralt finds his eyes fluttering shut. 

When he finishes, he sucks the glaze from where it'd dripped onto his fingers and hears Jaskier inhale sharply beside him. _As if he has any room to judge my table manners,_ he thinks idly, wiping the spit-slick digits on his pants. "Thank you," he says looking over at Jaskier, "but you really shouldn't have. It wasn't necessary. Spend your coin on yourself in the future-- or better yet, try saving it." 

Jaskier huffs a little and sits up straighter, turning his whole body to face Geralt. He tucks one leg up under himself so he's fully sideways in the booth, fixing Geralt with a rather stern sort of look. He sucks in a breath, as if he's about to say something important or long-winded. "Listen," he says, "yes, it's great you can handle rougher treatments. It's a huge boon, a trained skill you worked hard for, that you can handle going so long without food, or that you can just ignore how something tastes and eat it anyway. It's very, very useful in your line of work. You're good at your job, and I acknowledge that. That's all great. Absolutely fantastic that you _can_ do these things."

Geralt squirms a little at the praise, averting his eyes. " _But,_ " he continues, "that doesn't mean you _have to_ do that every single moment of your life. You're not going to suddenly forget how it's done."

"I--" Geralt crosses his arms over his chest defensively, mouth pressed into a thin line. "I eat nice things, on occasion. If I need to go to some sort of... party to gather information, for a job, for example. I just... don't get the opportunity that often."

"Okay," his voice is patient, though a little exasperated around the edges, "but you would have _more_ opportunities if you ever did more than sit down in a tavern, nod at a serving girl, and say _'two meals'._ And I know you know how to ask, because sometimes you'll do it for me."

Geralt frowns. "It's different when it's you. If you don't like it, you won't eat. It's... it only makes sense to... and I save more coin in the long run, not bothering to buy things that'll go to waste."

"Yes, and thank you, I do so love that you're taking me into account like that," his eyebrow quirks a little bit, amused by the cogs turning in Geralt's head. He's a smart man, but gods is he bad at this sort of thing. "But that's missing my point. My point is, you could simply-- and I know this is far-fetched-- _ask for food you like_."

His frown deepens, and he looks over at Jaskier, searching his face. "But..." he starts, sounding a little lost, "but that's a luxury." 

Jaskier sucks in a breath, and it's his turn to look away from Geralt for a moment, as if composing himself. "Oh, yes, that whole _can't miss it if you're not used to it_ thing..." He mumbles, sounding sarcastic and bitter as he stares at the table top. He turns Geralt's words over in his head, then turns back to meet his eye. "Geralt, are you seriously telling me that you're going to end up laying awake at night, thinking about a pastry?" He reaches out and touches Geralt gently on the arm, fingers resting in the crook of his elbow. "And even if you did... would it honestly be so bad to have a nice memory to revisit?" His brows are drawn together in concern as he searches Geralt's face, as if the answers might be written there.

The question catches him so off-guard, they might as well be, no chance to school his expression. He stares at Jaskier's hand on his arm. "I... I don't know, I..."

"Because I very earnestly cannot picture you, sitting around a campfire, bellyaching over a lack of tarts. That's just not who you are." He's smiling again, but it's sad this time, a little mournful thing around the edges of his lips. "You can have nice things. The trick is, when you're laying outside in the dirt, don't resent their absence, conjure them up as a comfort instead."

"That's easy to say when you've never lost anything." Geralt snaps, yanking his arm away and staring resolutely at the wall.

"I've lost plenty, you've just never asked about it." Jaskier says simply, gaze unwavering, taking Geralt by surprise. "And besides, we're not talking about lost things. We're talking about things you don't have anymore. You assume a violent, painful parting, but that's simply not the way of everything to enter and exit your life. Some things will part easily. Some things will simply be a sweet tart that you've finished eating. Simple entrance, simple exit. No hard feelings there. You have to stop assuming everything in your life will be torn from you." He reaches out again, places a hand on Geralt's shoulder. "I haven't been, have I?"

"You will." The words are out of his mouth before he has the chance to stop them, and he cringes.

"I don't think I will." He says it so gently, and Geralt wants to shout, wants to say _you can't_ know _that,_ because how many others thought the same? How many other soft, fragile humans placed their lives in his hands, only for him to fail them entirely, to let them slip through his fingers? But Jaskier just places his other hand on Geralt's and squeezes. "I don't think I will." He repeats, and Geralt can't help but squeeze his hand back.

"I... I don't want you to leave." He admits quietly. 

Jaskier's smile rivals the sun. He scoots in close and leans his head on Geralt's shoulder. "Well, it's a good thing I'm not going anywhere, then, hmm?" He chirps, seemingly content to let that be the end of the conversation.

"Yeah..." Geralt mumbles, feeling raw. He gives Jaskier's hand another squeeze. "Yeah, it is."

* * *

When Yennefer walks in the door a few days later, Geralt can't even find it in himself to be surprised. Of course destiny would throw this at him. The person he could have loved, the woman who means so much to him, the one who can see right through his bullshit. The one person who would know what his symptoms mean. 

It's early in the morning, and while he isn't healed enough to ride out quite yet, he can manage the stairs on his own. Jaskier is by his side anyway, chattering on about everything and nothing, and when Geralt's eyes lock with Yennefer's from across the room, he reaches out to grab Jaskier's wrist. It pulls both of them to a stop, and Jaskier looks over at him in confusion. He manages to tear his eyes away from hers to meet Jaskier's instead. "Don't tell her." He says firmly.

Jaskier's brow furrows in confusion. "Don't-- don't tell who what?" His gaze flits around the room until it lands on raven hair and a black and white color scheme. She'd turned away to discuss something with the innkeeper, but she was striking from any angle, and Jaskier recognizes her with ease. He turns back to Geralt. "I-- what? But--"

Before he can say anything else, Geralt tightens his grip, which makes Jaskier wince. "Don't. Tell. Her."

"Melitele's tits, _fine_ , you oaf! Now let go, I need that wrist, I'll have you know!" He snatches his hand back, rubbing at his wrist and glaring exaggeratedly at Geralt's side.

"Thank you." Jaskier's gaze softens at his sincerity, but before anything else can come of it, Geralt hurries down the rest of the stairs. 

* * *

So, in retrospect, this meal was probably a bad idea.

It had started well enough-- he likes seeing Yen, wanted to catch up. But, a spanner had been thrown into the works in the form of Jaskier. He wasn't her biggest fan, admittedly, but she was in rare form today, sniping back at him with single-minded efficiency. Any attempts to steer the conversation back on track were bowled over, Jaskier riled up and Yennefer unwilling to let it drop. She seemed amused, like a cat toying with a mouse. 

It was fucking infuriating.

Eventually, realizing he wasn't going to be able to get conversation out of either of them, or get them away from each other, Geralt huffs and takes his plate, quietly getting up and moving away from the table to eat at the bar. Maybe they just needed to be catty at each other for a while, get it out of their system. He'd try to pry them apart again after a meal of peace and quiet.

He loved the two of them, but good gods.

* * *

"So," Yennefer says once Geralt's escaped the table, cutting Jaskier's irritated ramblings off, "what's really going on?"

Jaskier blinks at her, mouth still open. Then he narrows his eyes, crosses his arms over his chest. "What do you mean by that? It's the truth, you're a--"

She waves a hand dismissively. "No, not _that_. I mean with Geralt."

She can see the cogs turning in Jaskier's head as he glances between her and Geralt's perch at the bar. "You... you were just trying to scare him off, weren't you?"

"No," She drawls, leaning back in her seat and shooting him a pointed look, "I simply revel in swapping playground taunts with you, bard. Makes me feel young again. Childlike, even." He huffs, irritated, but she continues without acknowledging it. "Something is clearly wrong with him, and he's not exactly being forthcoming. You've been traveling with him, surely you've noticed it."

Jaskier chews on the inside of his cheek, looking back at Geralt once more. He'd said he wouldn't say anything to her. But she was a sorceress, maybe she'd know a way to break the curse without that nasty side effect Geralt had mentioned. And she was, despite Jaskier's irritations, their friend. She was worried about him. And Geralt was such a stubborn idiot, honestly, if he would just accept the damn help...

Yennefer remained silent, seemingly sensing his ever weakening resolve. He didn't want to betray Geralt's trust, but... they needed help. Jaskier sucks in a breath and leans forward, eyes still glued to Geralt's back. "He... he's been cursed." He admits quietly.

She leans in as well, speaks a little quieter, brow furrowed slightly. "Cursed? Normally I would've sensed such a thing."

Jaskier shrugs. "I don't know much, he's pretty... secretive about it. But it's... it's hurting him, I think. And he refuses to do anything about it, see anyone. Says it'll go away on its own, like a speech hex."

She hums softly, absorbing this information. "Do you know anything else about it?"

"I suppose there could be more he isn't telling me, but the main one..." Jaskier drops his eyes to stare at the table. "He's coughing up flowers. I think... I think they're in his lungs. That's how the grave hag got him, coughing fit right in the middle of a contract." He closes his eyes and the image is right there, Geralt pale in the moonlight, held up by that monster, coated in red, red, red--

He shakes his head to clear it, forcing his mind away from the image. 

"Suppose that's why he wouldn't talk about it..." She murmurs, and when Jaskier looks up she's twisted in her seat a bit to look over at Geralt, her lips pressed into a grim line.

"What?" A spark of hope-- she recognizes the symptoms. _Maybe she knows more, maybe she can help._ "Does-- does that mean you know about this curse? Have you heard of it before? Though, I suppose a curse that makes you hurl little yellow flowers would be rather distinctive, on a list of curses."

She looks over at him sharply. "Yellow?" She asks, seems a little surprised, maybe a touch taken aback.

"Yeah, yellow... why, does that mean something? Is it bad?" He asks, suddenly worried. Maybe the curse takes different forms, maybe yellow means danger. Maybe it's a more deadly form of the curse.

She rakes her eyes up and down Jaskier's form, suddenly appraising. She hums in thought. "And he called it a curse?"

Any irritation he felt at his own questions getting routinely ignored is swept aside by instant, gnawing worry. "Yes... that is what he said. I... why, is it not a curse?"

She stands, eyes fixed on Geralt. "I think I need to go have a talk with our witcher." She moves to leave and Jaskier reaches out, grabs her by the wrist. She looks down at it in surprise.

"Can you help him?" She inhales to reply, but before she can say anything, he starts again. "It's been going on for weeks, and it just seems to be getting worse. He said it would go away on its own, but... but it isn't. And he won't _talk_ to me, I... I have no idea what's..." He seems at a loss for words for a moment. "Just. I know we're not the closest people, but... please. Please help him."

She places her other hand on his. Just rests it there for a moment, squeezing gently. It's possibly the most physical comfort he's seen her extend to another person. "I'll do everything I can." She says softly. After another beat of silence, she gently pushes his hand away, and he lets her.

* * *

"I think you and I need to have a private chat." Geralt looks up from his meal to find Yennefer leaning against the bar on his left. In another context, the words might've been exciting, but her tone is serious, and when he glances away from her to peer at Jaskier, he looks downright grim.

Jaskier told her. 

He sighs-- should've known. Jaskier's been so on-edge about it, not that he could blame the man, exactly... He nods and downs the rest of his drink. He'd sort of expected the mask to slip, eventually, Yennefer's sharp like that, but he did think he'd have more time first. He resigns himself to the fact that he's about to have a particularly unpleasant conversation and heaves himself to his feet. "After you."

* * *

Jaskier leans closer to the door, just slightly ajar. He feels guilty, of course, eavesdropping like this, but he’s tied himself in knots with worry. No one will tell him anything, so--

“There are options, as you know.” She sounds so prim, right leg crossed neatly over left. Vaguely annoyed, too, put upon, as if this is information Geralt has already. As if she’s reminding him of what he already knows. He grunts back, but she continues, undeterred. “You could have it removed-”

His response is immediate and fierce. “No.”

She sighs, uncrosses her legs just to cross them again, left over right this time. “There’s always confession, then, if that’s what you prefer. I’m sure-”

“No. I can’t.” He responds just as quickly as before, jaw set.

Her brow twitches in irritation. "Can’t or won’t?“

"Both.” Stubborn as a mule, as always. He speaks through gritted teeth, nostrils flared. Something about her suggestions is making him very angry. "Yen, I’m not going to-“ But whatever it is he’s not doing is lost to the ages, because he’s cut off by a sudden coughing fit.

He doubles over as it hits him, and Yennefer softens a bit, concern flitting across her expression. The sound is loud and wet and choking, ribs rattling with the effort to expel the blossoms. When he finally settles, he pulls his hand away from his mouth to reveal three buttercups, slightly crushed and tinged red with blood. Flecks have landed on his lips as well, stark against his pale skin. 

His hands are shaking, but he cups them around the flowers so delicately, clutches them to his chest as he catches his breath. Jaskier has never seen him treat… maybe anything with such care. Jaskier is struck with the sudden memory of those early petals. Geralt, angry and bitter, stomping them beneath his heel and grinding. He doesn’t know what’s changed, exactly, but now Geralt’s movements hold a certain reverence, like the offending blooms are a precious thing, and his expression is something bittersweet.

He expects Yennefer to get angry, maybe, call him an idiot, but instead she silently stands and moves to retrieve something from Geralt’s pack. Her face is pinched, brows drawn together and her lips pressed into a thin line. She presents a small bag to Geralt- one that Jaskier has seen him using to save whatever he coughs up. He looks up at Yennefer, lets his hand linger on hers for a moment, before murmuring a hoarse "Thank you,” and taking it to slip the three buttercups inside.

Jaskier had originally assumed, when he saw Geralt had started collecting them, slipping them into his pocket when he thought Jaskier wasn't looking, that it had to do with breaking the curse... but now he isn’t so sure.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” Her voice is so quiet, almost pleading. It’s not a tone he’s used to on her.

“Yes, it does.” He’s quiet too, but firm, final. He looks up at her and, after a few moments of intense eye contact, she pulls away, cursing under her breath. 

She gently takes the bag and returns it to its spot with the rest of his belongings. “I’ll make you something. A tea. It’ll keep things from progressing any further, help manage the worst of the symptoms. No more nearly dying due to a coughing fit in the middle of a hunt. But it’s not a fix. You’ll still be spitting up flowers for the rest of your life.” Her frown deepens. “It’ll hurt, Geralt. Until you deal with it, it’ll never stop hurting.”

“I know.” Her arms are folded across her chest, looking downright irritable, and she isn’t quite looking at him, so he reaches out and places his hand on hers. “Thank you, Yen.”

She looks surprised, then grim, squeezing his hand back. “I can’t believe I’m helping you with this when there are two perfectly good solutions that you refuse to…” She sighs heavily and leans forward, resting her head on the top of Geralt’s. “Gods damn you, you fool of a man.” He hums in response.

At this, Jaskier feels acutely like he’s seeing an intimate moment he really, really shouldn’t be. As quickly as he can, without being discovered, he backs away from the slightly ajar inn door and scrambles out of the hallway.

His thoughts are whirling around his head, and he has more questions than answers. Why do they both seem to know so much about it? What crime did Geralt need to confess to? Why is he so content to suffer?

The thought that plagues Jaskier, though, the one that has tears welling in his eyes and leaves his chest aching, isn’t even a question. What his mind unwittingly returns to, without fail, is the image of Geralt bent over, shaking, wheezing- looking so much smaller, so much more fragile than his witcher has any right to… gazing down at bloody flowers like they were the most precious thing he’d ever held.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, jsyk, if you're at all interested in the, like, Process I go through to write or whatever, I uploaded my rough draft of this chapter over on my blog(link here: https://roughentumble.tumblr.com/post/612792296376877056 ) because it had some lines I liked that, unfortunately, had to get cut. Hope y'all enjoy!

Leg bouncing, nails chewed, eyes unfocused-- Jaskier is the image of anxiety, thoughts running around his head in circles as he waits for Yennefer to come downstairs. Guilt weighs down his shoulders as well, warring with the anxiety running rampant through his mind. Questions plagued him, and all he wanted was some godsdamned answers-- but suddenly he wonders if eavesdropping was maybe a bad idea. It felt like a violation of Geralt's trust, which he'd already done by telling Yen in the first place. But... surely he was justified, right? He wanted Geralt to get better, wanted to know how to help him, and Geralt hadn't seemed angry. He slumps forward a little, elbows on the table, and puts his head in his hands. 

He's so tired of worrying. No answers, no respite, just... constant, low-level worry.

Heels on wood. Jaskier's head snaps up at the sound and there she is, descending the stairs, looking grim. She crosses the room altogether too slowly in Jaskier's opinion. His leg starts bouncing again.

By the time she's pulling out a chair across from him, he's about ready to jump out of his own skin. "Is he going to be alright?" The words fly out of him, a little too loud, a little too fast, before she's even fully seated. 

She makes him wait until she's sitting and comfortable, legs crossed. "He's not going to die."

The relief is instant. Just hearing that simple reassurance from someone who actually knows what's going on has his shoulders slumping and tears springing to his eyes. It leaves him a little light-headed, and his hand flutters to his chest to quell his racing heart. "Oh," he mumbles, "oh thank the gods." After a brief pause, he tacks on, "And you as well. Thank you."

Yennefer shakes her head, something approaching fondness in the corners of her eyes. "Always theatrics with you."

He makes an affronted noise. "Excuse me, I just got some rather earth-shattering news, I'm entitled to a little excitement. I don't know what's going on, unlike you people."

That seems to bring her down, expression turning serious once more. "Right. He's been keeping you in the dark, hasn't he?"

"Yeah." He says quietly, rubbing his thumb across the pads of his fingers, feeling the callouses there-- a nervous habit. "I tried not to let it show, but... he was really starting to scare me, there."

She sighs heavily, and mutters _'that idiot'_ under her breath. "Well. I can't tell you everything-- it's his job to come clean, not mine. But I can shed a little light on the sickness for you." Jaskier inhales sharply, eyes lighting up at the prospect of finally getting a little clarity. "Because that's exactly what it is-- a sickness. Not a curse. Magical in nature, yes, hence why witchers can have it. But it isn't catching, so you're fine."

"What," he exclaims, then stops, hand over his mouth. "...It's not... not a curse...?" His thoughts are racing too fast to process, and he flounders for a moment. 

"The main symptom is flowers growing in the lungs. All other problems stem from that-- if you'll pardon the pun. Shortness of breath, coughing, et cetera." She says it casually, but there's a hardness around her eyes, like she's trying hard not to think about it, like she's just feigning her aloof demeanor. 

Jaskier barely hears her anyway, too busy trying to process what she's told him. "So..." His brow furrows. "So how did he get it, then, if it isn't catching?"

"Don't know, didn't ask." She shrugs. " _How_ he got it isn't important to me, just how to deal with it. Though, I suppose he got it the same way everyone else who's fallen ill has got it. Details change, but the inciting event stays the same."

"What-- what does that even _mean_?" He asks, voice rising in frustration. " _What_ makes people catch it?"

"Ask him." She says simply. "It's a rather... private matter. But there is one thing that everyone with this affliction shares. Not everyone who experiences this... one event gets the illness, but you can't get the illness if this event hasn't transpired."

"You're talking in riddles." He grits out, hands curling into fists. "Gods, I wish someone would just be fucking straight with me, for once! I'm not an idiot, okay, and I'm not useless just because I'm a human, I--" 

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. "Don't shout at me about it, I haven't misled you yet, have I?" He grumbles, but concedes her point, collapsing back in his chair. "Much better. Now, I'm sorry my answers are vague, but like I said, it's a rather private matter, and it's Geralt who needs to spill the proverbial beans. You want to get to the heart of things, so to speak, badger him, not me."

Jaskier sits back momentarily, chastened, before leaning forward in his seat again, Yennefer's words finally clicking into place. "Wait. Misled? So--" He sounds lost, "so you're telling me," but as he continues the words grow bolder, angrier, " _you're_ telling _me_ ," heated, loud, "that he knew it wasn't a curse this entire time?" Something about her face screams _you're only just now working that part out?_ , but Jaskier's too busy being angry to notice. "He's just been-- been lying to my face, while I worried and doted and... and he just, what, didn't deign to tell me? Oh, let's not tell fragile little Jaskier, of course, why would we ever bother explaining things to someone like _him._ " He spits the words out like they're bitter, face pinched with anger.

" _I'm_ explaining things to you _right now_. If you're going to be mad at anyone, be mad at Geralt. Rake him over the coals for all I care. But... before you do, you should understand where he's coming from." She meets his eyes, tilts her head a little, as if sizing him up. "Surely you've had your secrets? Things you were too ashamed to share, thoughts too private to make known." He nods, averts his eyes. "He's scared. And I normally wouldn't betray his trust in telling you that, but honestly, I think he needs you to know. Scared that you'll run off once you understand the illness. He isn't being cruel, at least not intentionally. He hid it from you because your opinion matters to him, and he thinks this'll send you running for the hills."

Jaskier remains silent, and Yennefer pauses as well, allows the words to sink in. 

"Be angry if you'd like, of course. He shouldn't have lied to you. And he's being rather stubborn about it all, if you ask me. You don't have to let him off the hook. Just make sure, if you're going to make him squirm, it's for the right reasons." She finishes, sitting up straighter in her chair. 

"All I wanted..." Jaskier folds his arms across his stomach, curling in on himself slightly. "All I ever wanted was for him to be _okay_."

She sighs heavily. "Yes, I figured as much." As she stands, she curses Geralt under her breath once more for good measure. "Do with the information what you will." She says in lieu of an actual goodbye, and then strides out the door, presumably to work on the tea she'd mentioned, leaving Jaskier to stew.

* * *

"We need to talk." Geralt blinks up at him, startled at Jaskier's sudden appearance in the doorway. He's twisted around, had been seated on the edge of the bed with his back to the door, and Jaskier barging in hadn't given him a chance to get up and rearrange himself. "Yen told me," he starts, and Geralt instantly goes pale, "Yen told me that it's not a curse you're suffering from, and you know what the most interesting part of her explanation was? She told me you knew, that you've known _this whole time_ what the actual problem was. That you knew it wasn't going the fuck away, that you've been lying to me for _weeks_!"

Jaskier marches forward as he speaks until he comes to a stop right in front of Geralt, hands on his hips. "For weeks now you've let me worry and fret and twist in the wind. What the fuck, Geralt? All I ask for is the basest of explanations and you can't even afford me that, I don't even deserve that? I'm not even worthy of a simple explanation? You--" His voice catches a little on his next words, and he finds it rising in volume, barely has time to register Geralt flinching away from the sudden sound, before he's continuing, "you really think that little of me? You think me scared off so easily? Give me a little more fucking credit than that, godsdamnit. I'm not fucking pathetic, and you should _know_ that, because despite every complaint and gripe I've levied over the years, I have been traveling with you quite a fucking while now, and you should _know me_. I handle life on the road, life with a _witcher_ , pretty damn well, and take most things in stride, and yet _still_ you treat me like--!" He cuts himself off with a frustrated groan, running his hands through his hair to try and organize his rushing thoughts.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating it is, how frightening it is, to know something's wrong but not know what it is, or how to stop it, or how to help? I've been, essentially, squirming under your thumb for weeks now with no respite, all because of your--!" He pauses for a moment and glances down at Geralt-- and freezes.

He looks at Geralt, ready to chastise him further, and sees his wide-eyed stare. Sees his hands cupped to his chest. More blood on his lips. More flowers in his hands.

He looks... hurt. 

Jaskier melts a little, expression softening. "Oh, _Geralt_ ," he says quietly, stepping a little closer, "did you have another attack? Why didn't you _tell_ me, why'd you just sit there and let me yell at you while you're hurting?" 

Geralt shrugs, eyes downcast, pulls in on himself a little further, and the moment stretches out before him, fragile, like spun glass. Something in Jaskier's chest aches, and he wants to shout, _no, no, don't do that, don't close yourself up,_ but he doesn't want to shatter the moment, doesn't know how to say it without making Geralt retreat further. 

"I... I deserve it." He says quietly, head bowed. 

Jaskier makes a pained sound and suddenly he doesn't give a shit about shattering the moment anymore, he just wants to comfort the man in front of him. He rushes forward, clambering into Geralt's lap, throwing his arms around Geralt's neck, tucking himself into Geralt's space to hold him close, keep him from curling in. "No, you dolt, you deserve to be chastised for making me worry, or for treating me like a child, not... not sit there in agony and get kicked while you're down! I swear, you're always overreacting, always torturing yourself for no reason..."

Geralt sits stock-still, hands crushed against his chest, trapped between himself and Jaskier's enthusiastic grip. "Did you honestly think," Jaskier continues, hugging him closer, "that I... what, wanted you to suffer, or something?"

He's tense as a rock, like any wrong move might incite Jaskier's ire. Like a cornered animal. He doesn't say anything, but that's more than answer enough. Jaskier lifts a hand and starts running his fingers through Geralt's hair. For a moment Geralt stiffens even further, but after a beat his shoulders start to drop ever so slightly, and Jaskier feels him relax by inches. His head eventually droops a bit and he leans it on Jaskier's shoulder, pressing his face into the crook. "I... I didn't want you to leave." He admits, voice small.

"Oh, my dear witcher..." Jaskier rests his cheek against the top of Geralt's head, still petting. "And you thought that I'd go as soon as I found out how sick you were." It isn't phrased like a question, but Geralt nods anyway, and Jaskier makes an admonishing sound. "Geralt, never, I'd _never_ \--"

"Should." He mumbles, cutting Jaskier off. "Got every right to. 'M no good as a muse, like this."

"As a...?" Jaskier blinks for a moment, processing his words, then he places both hands on Geralt's shoulders and gently pushes him back, just enough to meet his eyes. "You really think I give a shit about that? You're my _friend_. I don't care about the music. I'm not going anywhere, okay? You could literally set up shop in a tiny town in the middle of nowhere as a shepherd, and I'd still be right there with you. Well-- admittedly, I might go on excursions to nearby towns n' such, to get nice clothes and good wine, but, I'd still come back to you. Every time. No matter what."

"I... really?" He stares up at Jaskier in disbelief, and Jaskier smiles back.

"Of course... I'm so sorry I let you think otherwise, I... I thought you knew. Especially after our conversation the other day. You're not just a job or a muse, Geralt, I... I thought you _knew_." He says sadly, brushing some of Geralt's hair out of his face. "Is... is that why you kept me in the dark about your illness, your symptoms? You thought... oh," his face falls further as everything clicks into place, "oh, you didn't hide it because you thought _I_ was weak... you thought... you thought I'd leave if _you_ were weak." He pauses for a moment and there's the smallest of movements-- another nod. " _Geralt_... I'm... I'm not going to just abandon you like that, I swear. You have to start trusting me a little, alright?" He searches Geralt's face almost desperately. "If... if you need some time, I... I can be patient, truly. But, please, just... trust me? Just let me in, please..."

Geralt keeps staring silently, lips parted. Looking up at Jaskier like he's a revelation. The seconds drag on like that until an all-too-familiar sensation catches up to him, creeping up the back of his throat, and he curls over again, coughing into his palms. Jaskier leans back to give him space, give him air, but keeps running his hands over Geralt's shoulders soothingly, murmuring gentle encouragements. 

When he straightens back up, his eyes look a little misty from the effort, there's even fresher blood staining his lips, and two new blossoms rest in his lightly shaking palms.

Jaskier reaches into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief. He reaches for Geralt, and Geralt ducks back a little. "I... I don't need..." he croaks out, and Jaskier shakes his head.

"You may not _need_ , but I want to, so." He reaches out again, slower this time. "So let me? Please."

Geralt stills, and Jaskier sets about cleaning his mouth for him, gently swiping the cloth along his lower lip. "Listen," he says gently, still dabbing at the red on Geralt's mouth, "if you don't want to give me all the details, you... you don't have to. Yennefer said it's... personal. If you don't want to tell me-- well, I'll still pester the hell out of you, we both know that, but... just don't lie to my face anymore, alright?"

Geralt swallows hard and gives him a single, weak nod.

* * *

Deep down, Geralt knows that Jaskier is wrong. He knows that if he told Jaskier the entire, unedited truth, the bard would leave. Or, at the very least, would pity him, treat him differently, start pulling away, and the thought of Jaskier present but distant is almost more painful than the idea of him gone--

but he wants to believe him _so badly_.

Hesitantly, he leans forward again, past the hands gently wiping away the blood, and Jaskier accepts him back into the circle of his arms without complaint, lets him tuck his face back into the crook of his neck. Jaskier's grip is gentle and firm all at once, calming and grounding, and he never wants to move from this spot. 

_Just for a minute,_ he thinks desperately, squeezing his eyes shut and sinking into Jaskier's touch, _just let me pretend._

And... well... Jaskier... he'd sounded so _sincere_. And he just wanted to know what was going on... And Geralt, Geralt can't tell him _everything_ , but maybe he could... tell him something small. He wets his lips nervously, hunches in a little closer, and hesitantly admits, "My... my chest's been feeling tight, lately."

There's a pause, then Jaskier's hand resumes its path through Geralt's hair. "I'm sorry, Geralt. I hope Yen's tea can help with that... thank you for telling me."

Jaskier keeps talking, a soothing white noise, something about different methods they could try to maybe ease that feeling, but Geralt barely hears him. The tension release is instant, and it slams into him like a fiend on a full-blown rampage. He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding, slumping forward against Jaskier bonelessly. _He didn't leave,_ he thinks, relief washing over him in waves. It was such a tiny confession, but-- _He didn't_ leave, _he didn't... he's still here, he stayed, he's still here._ He moves his arms as well, dropping the flowers in favor of Jaskier's waist, tugging him into a crushing grip. 

Jaskier yelps a little at the sudden shift, the weight on his shoulder throwing him off-balance, but he recovers quickly. He pulls Geralt in impossibly closer, noses along his temple. "Were you really _that_ worried about me leaving?" He asks softly. Geralt's resulting shudder seems to be answer enough, and he sighs. "Well, you don't have to worry anymore, alright?"

And he knows that that's not true, but for a moment his world smells like buttercups and wood polish, and Geralt almost believes him. 


	9. Chapter 9

They don't see Yennefer again until the next morning. She arrives with a decently sized pouch, breezing into their room with a feigned casualness. She deposits it into Geralt's hands and announces "One spoonful to a small pot's worth of water. You can brew it in batches, but don't let the result sit longer than three days. Of course, it'll taste absolutely vile cold, but if needs must it'll work all the same. Cupful each morning and evening, no matter what. This should last you three months, since I had to make it on the fly." Jaskier scrambles for his notebook while she rattles everything off, but Geralt just watches her, mentally cataloging away the instructions. There's a weighty pause, and Geralt repeats what she's said, though in much more clipped sentences, and she nods in satisfaction. "Good boy." He rolls his eyes at that little condescension. "If I find out you've wasted it, or gone against my recommendations, I'll make sure you regret it."

"That a threat or a promise?" He asks idly, setting the bag on his nightstand.

"Whichever one gets you to actually listen for once." She shoots back, and he can't help the fond smile that has his mouth curling up at the corners. 

"Thank you, Yen." 

"Anytime, _my dear witcher_." Her eyes narrow gleefully, and she pats him on the cheek. Geralt's face falls, going hard around the edges, and behind her Jaskier flushes bright red, averts his gaze uncomfortably. Geralt starts to butt in, an offended noise working its way out of his throat because-- because she doesn't call him that, _Jaskier_ calls him that-- but she snorts, waving her hand dismissively. "Oh relax, I was only teasing." 

Geralt grumbles a little, but she's already turned away from him, making her way towards the door.

"Wait!" Notebook laid open and forgotten on his own side table, Jaskier leans forward, reaching out to stop her path. "You said three months-- what'll we do when it runs out?" 

"We'll run into each other before then." She says airily.

Jaskier makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat. "But how could you know that? What if we--"

"When the time comes, we'll see each other, whether by destiny's hand or mine." She says, hand on her hip. "I mean, you two are hardly a challenge to track. You just bounce from one end of the continent to the other, leaving a trail of tavern brawls in your wake." Jaskier splutters indignantly, but she ignores him, turning towards Geralt. "Every day. Once in the morning, once at night. And _don't_ up your dosage."

He meets her eyes and nods once, and she nods back, satisfied. Then she turns and slips out the door. 

* * *

Geralt makes the tea, drinks a cup-- it's already foul, so the idea that being cold makes it even worse somehow is foreboding. But, not one to waste, he dutifully pours the rest into a spare waterskin to save for later. 

His side is healed, he has his tea, and Geralt is itching to get back on the road. Jaskier puts up an initial resistance, clearly worried about Geralt's health, but the entire event is well on its way to being naught but a scar and another distant memory, and deep down Jaskier is just as anxious to get moving as Geralt. He folds with ease, a bounce in his step as he waits for Geralt to finish with Roach's tack.

A sudden fondness unfurls itself in Geralt's gut. He and Jaskier are the same on that front-- always have the urge to move, to seek another adventure, a new view. He allows himself a moment to enjoy the feeling, the knowledge that he's not alone in that regard anymore, that he's found someone he won't outpace... then he shoves that thought aside and mounts Roach. 

* * *

They have to pass by the graveyard on the way out of town. Jaskier gives it a wide berth, looking a bit ill, and Geralt ignores it entirely, until he realizes that Jaskier is no longer beside him. He pulls back on Roach's reigns and peers over his shoulder to find Jaskier staring at the graves. He's about to ask what's wrong, when Jaskier speaks. "It's Henry and Orla."

Geralt follows his gaze and, indeed, the couple is knelt near the back of the graveyard. He watches them for a moment before saying "So it is." and turning to continue on.

Again, though, he's cut off by Jaskier. "We should tell them we're leaving town."

They most likely want to be left alone, and Geralt certainly doesn't want to intrude. It would be... exceedingly awkward, to say the least. And he's probably not wanted, anyway. "No. Better to just leave."

"I'm sure they'd appreciate the chance to say goodbye." He says, casting a look up at Geralt. "C'mon, what would it hurt?" Any previous discomfort is, evidently, buried, in favor of another conversation with the innkeepers. 

"Don't have time." he says, which is patently ridiculous, but he's itching to _go_ , to just leave, and any further conversation just spells trouble. Better to leave positive interactions as they were, lest they get spoiled, or he says something wrong, or something about his nature is revealed. Like Janey-- better to go before things turn sour. But before he can say anything further, Henry's looking up and their eyes meet. He smiles brightly, says something to his wife, and then he and Orla are waving them over. Geralt lets out a long-suffering sigh as he slips off Roach's back. She huffs and stamps a little, eager to get moving as well, and he strokes her neck placatingly. "I know, girl, just a bit longer."

Jaskier grins brightly and grabs his hand, tugging Geralt forward enthusiastically. His smile gets tight, forced, on the path to the graveyard. If Geralt looks, he can still see blood on the grass, where the hag... but then Jaskier is tugging again, and they're past the gate, and some of the stress melts away. There are pleasantries, which Geralt _'hm'_ s in response to at the appropriate moments, unsure of what to say.

"So, your side's all healed, then?" Henry asks. "Setting out?"

"Hm." Geralt says, in an affirmative tone.

He nods, and Orla says "That's too bad. We'll be sad to see you go."

And that-- that's... Geralt flounders. "Hm."

Jaskier laughs and smacks his shoulder. "What he _means_ to say is, we're sad to leave. You've both been _so_ lovely to us-- we can't thank you enough." Orla _'aww'_ s and _'come 'ere'_ s as she opens her arms wide and pulls Jaskier into a tight hug, which he happily reciprocates. Henry shoots Geralt a look-- maybe... fond? Exasperated?-- but the meaning behind it is lost on Geralt, so he keeps his face blank.

"Since you're here," Henry says, gesturing to his side, "could we... could we introduce you to Hammond?"

Now it's Jaskier's turn to flounder. He glances at Geralt like he isn't sure how to respond, mouth curved into a surprised _'o'_. There's no polite way to refuse something like that, so Geralt inclines his head. "We'd be honored."

They both go and sit in front of the grave, and Geralt lowers himself into a kneel beside them. Jaskier stands awkwardly by his side, unsure of what to do with himself. "Hammond, we've brought you visitors. They're... they're the ones we were telling you about. The ones who saved you."

Jaskier makes a surprised sound in the back of his throat. "Oh, I-- I didn't do anything, really, ah..."

Geralt reaches out and wraps his fingers gently around Jaskier's wrist, tearing his eyes away from the headstone to look up at the bard instead. "You were invaluable in that fight. I would be dead now, without you." He says quietly. Jaskier sucks in a harsh breath, and when their gazes meet, it's charged, weighty. His eyes are damp. When Geralt tugs, he goes willingly, sinking to his knees as well. 

He clears his throat, rubs at the back of his neck. "Ah... th- thank you. I didn't... know you thought that." 

"Jaskier." Geralt says softly, turning to look at him once more. Geralt raises one finger and presses it to his lips. "Sh."

"Right, right, sorry." He says sheepishly, and Orla smiles, reaching around Geralt to lightly touch Jaskier's knee. 

"This is Jaskier, the witcher's companion." She says, eyes on the headstone.

"And it is a pleasure to meet you," Jaskier says brightly, addressing the headstone as well, "your lovely parents have had nothing but kind things to say. You must be a pretty amazing young man, if even half of what they said is true."

She smiles a little wider, and Henry slips his arm around her shoulders, tugging her in close. "And this..." Her hand moves, alights on Geralt's knee this time. "is the witcher." He keeps his eyes locked on the stone as he inclines his head once more, and Orla reaches out to caress the carvings, the simple letters pressed into the stone. "You two," she says, addressing Geralt and Jaskier now, even as her fingers and eyes lovingly trace the _'H'_ , "this is our Hammond."

There's a heavy moment of silence, and then Geralt reaches out. He gently presses his gloved palm against the headstone, staring at it intensely. The gesture must take Orla and Henry by surprise, because neither say anything, simply turning to watch him. "...Geralt." He says quietly, almost hesitant. "My name is Geralt." Another beat passes, then, "It's nice to meet you. I wish I could've gotten here sooner."

He couldn't do anything for the boy, the least he can give him is his name.

"We... we never even asked you for your name?" Henry sounds a little incredulous, scratching the back of his head. "I'm sorry, witcher, I don't know how we..."

Geralt glances at him, side-long, before turning his attention back to the stone beneath his hand. "It's fine. It's what I am." He says with a shrug, and it is fine. They don't _need_ his name, title works perfectly fine in this context, and he has no illusions about his own personhood. His brow furrows a little, though, as he swipes his thumb back and forth. "Just thought... he deserved to know." 

Orla reaches out suddenly, squeezes his forearm. "Geralt." She says, as if trying out his name, committing it to memory. "We won't forget what you've done for us."

He stares down at her hand on his arm. Another touch, offered easily, without fear. He would expect his armor to lessen the blow, make it harder to feel, but it seers him all the same, because this is his _armor_. This isn't warm flesh under a soft shirt, something that, in the wrong light, might be mistaken for human. This is cold leather, often soaked in blood and grime, a physical reminder of his status in the world. It's impossible to see this and not connect the dots-- he's dangerous, and he's on his way to do dangerous, violent things. 

He is dangerous and violent and she grips his leather-covered arm tightly, and her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and it's a scenario that's played out for him a thousand times-- except this time, it's different. She is not afraid, and he is entirely dry. He doesn't know what to do with this.

He realizes he's been silent too long, stared at their point of connection too long. He nods. "Nor I your family. Thank you for your hospitality." Then he removes his hand from the stone and stands in one fluid movement. He looks down at Jaskier. "We should go."

Jaskier stares up at him, his expression intense, but Geralt can't decipher it either. "R- right," he says, getting to his feet and brushing clean the knees of his pants, "yeah, we should probably... get on the road."

Geralt hangs back a bit as Jaskier says his goodbyes. He gives one final, curt nod, which Henry returns, and then they're gone, headed to the next town. 

* * *

When they set up camp that night, Geralt pours himself a cup from his waterskin of tea. Yennefer was right-- it's even more vile cold. It's somehow thickened, gotten almost slimy in consistency. After it slides down his gullet, it leaves him feeling more soothed than the fresh-brewed batch, the cooling sensation sticking to his throat and leaving it slick where it once felt dry and abused, but the sensation going down is so viscerally disquieting he has to fight back a gag more than once. The taste lingers as well, the hours having soured it considerably, and any benefits of it lingering on his throat are quickly outweighed by the taste that rolls over his tongue on each exhale and the phantom sensation he wrestles back. He chases it with water and roasted rabbit, hoping his disgust doesn't show on his face.

The tea doesn't really occupy his thoughts, though. As he stokes the fire, what inevitably runs through his head is...

He gets flashes of different scenes, different memories, unable to put any of them down, or linger on any in particular, as they bounce around inside his mind. They run circles around him, dancing before him like the flames he's currently staring through. Jaskier, begging him for the truth. Jaskier in his lap. _I'd still come back to you._ Leaning in, close, _So let me? Please._ Henry and Orla, hand on his, tears of gratitude. Yen, head resting against his, _It doesn't have to be like this._ Jaskier, hot breath on his cheek, _Please, don't scare me like that again._ Orla's hand on his arm, _won't forget you,_ the way she said his name, like she _wanted_ to remember him. Tears in her eyes. Jaskier, promising to stay. _You don't have to worry anymore, alright?_

Jaskier, promising to stay.

Jaskier, staying.

Something is building in him, filling his chest, something big and oppressive and impossible to breathe around. 

Geralt wraps his arms around himself, staring deeper into the fire. Everything in him is screaming that this is a bad idea, that he shouldn't, that something bad will happen if he reveals too much, but Jaskier wants clarity, and he... he _wants_ Jaskier to know. He wants Jaskier to know so badly, it feels like it's pressing out from inside his chest, like it'll burst out of him, curl and snap and bend his ribs along with it, leave him open and bleeding before the fire. He's scared of the consequences, but he's filled with the burning desire for Jaskier to _know._ His tongue darts out to wet his lips nervously. "My--" He starts, voice a touched strangled. Jaskier watches him curiously from his spot across the fire. He clears it, then starts again. "My... my body's fighting the flowers." It's a tiny confession, but maybe it will quell this urge inside him.

"...Yes," Jaskier says quietly, slowly scooting a little closer, as if trying not to startle him, "I figured that's where the coughing came from."

Geralt shakes his head. "No, it... it's why." He swallows hard. "Why it took me longer... to heal. My body was busy trying to heal... that. Already." He nearly flinches away from Jaskier, ready for the other shoe to drop, for this to be the straw that broke the camel's back. Ready for Jaskier to laugh in his face, then get up and walk away, forever.

Jaskier looks surprised. "Oh. Oh, that's no good. We'll have to work harder to make sure you don't take so much damage in the future, then... maybe buy more medicinal supplies, stop at apothecaries more often?" After a moment of silence, apparently mulling over his own ideas, he catches Geralt watching him, and smiles fondly back. "Thank you for telling me." He bumps their shoulders together affectionately for good measure.

Geralt lets out a shaky breath and nods in return, having used up all his words for the time being.

Something small and quiet and far too easily crushed whispers _Again. You told him and he didn't leave... maybe... maybe..._

It's a frightening feeling, tiny and insidious, wearing down his walls little by little.

It's a feeling not entirely unlike hope.

* * *

The next morning proceeds as if nothing's changed at all. 

Jaskier maybe seems a bit happier, a bit lighter, humming as he packs his bedroll, but Geralt can't track the genesis of it; relieved to be back on the road? Grateful for Geralt's honesty? Simple passing mood?

Damned if he knows. 

He feels warm with it all the same, though. Perhaps simply happy to see Jaskier happy-- and isn't that a sappy thought?

* * *

His mind keeps coming back to it, as they fall back into old routines. They walk, and occasionally snipe and banter, then they set up camp, and then the sun rises and they do it again. Jaskier complains, or sings, or falls silent as he concentrates on perfecting a new tune on his lute, and it all gives Geralt time to think. And it just keeps cycling back.

The slant of Jaskier's shoulders, the obvious relief there, the smoothing of the furrow between his brows, the easy way he bumps their shoulders together, limbs loose. Like a weight's been taken off him.

Part of Geralt is certain that one day, he's going to go too far, reveal too much, and he won't see any of that at all. He'll see Jaskier retreat, instead, horror crawling across his pretty face, or maybe repulsion, or disdain, and he'll leave, and Geralt will never see him again.

But... 

They walk, and Geralt wants, and yet again, he can feel one of the pillars of his resolve form a hairline fracture.

* * *

Two days out from the next town, Geralt tightens his grip of Roach's reigns and clears his throat. "I... I knew it wasn't a curse."

Jaskier looks up from where he'd been plucking out a tune on his lute. "I already knew that, Geralt."

"I wanted to..." Geralt rubs the back of his neck, avoiding Jaskier's gaze. His heart's beating so fast, it almost hurts. "I wanted to tell you myself. Admit it." The words feel clunky in his mouth, but they're sincere. He closes his eyes, as if getting ready, whole body tense, his demeanor practically shouting _here it comes, here it comes._

There's a pause, then, "Well. I... thank you." He says genuinely, sounding a touch taken aback. "Thank you for being honest with me."

He nods, and his heart rate shifts from a rabbit's pace to a butterfly flutter, and he honestly can't decide which feeling is worse.

* * *

They have to pass through a thick, out of season mist to reach the next town, and Geralt knows what his next job'll be instantly. He tries not to make too many assumptions or jump to conclusions too often-- it can be deadly in his line of work, after all-- but he's been doing this long enough to rely on experience. It's not exactly subtle. 

Even Jaskier seems to notice something is off. He shifts his lute on his back, glancing from side to side. "Thick fog-- I can hardly even see the road."

"Hm." Geralt can see the road just fine, but his eyes were built for this sort of thing. He glances from side to side as well, scanning the road. "Place your hand on the saddle, and don't let go." 

Jaskier looks up at him, startled. "You-- you want me to touch Roach?"

"Don't want you to get lost." He says distractedly, eyes still scanning the trees on either side of the road. 

"Must be a pretty nasty beasty, if it's got you asking me to touch your gear." He says lightly, but he reaches out like he was told, hand resting against the saddle, fingers barely curled around the edge. Geralt grunts in response, but otherwise keeps his attention on the road. He's not worried, precisely, but he'd rather have his wits about him than be caught off-guard. The fog isn't as thick as it could be, so either it hasn't noticed them yet, isn't working that hard to catch them, or it's not a very strong specimen. 

The minutes tick by, and Jaskier loosens his grip further, drumming a tune against the leather saddle, then letting go entirely in favor of trailing his fingers along the seams, feeling the stitching, still touching but not gripping. Geralt almost doesn't notice, trusting that he's been listened to-- which, really, he's a fool if he thinks Jaskier will stay put simply because he's been told, so it's as much Geralt's fault as his--until Jaskier's fingers are bumping against his knee on their path around the saddle.

Geralt pulls Roach to a sudden halt and he pivots all his attention down to Jaskier, slapping his hand over Jaskier's and squeezing tight. "I said, _don't let go_." He says sharply. Jaskier looks startled, confused, and Geralt squeezes again. "I think this might be a foglet. Their aim is to get you lost, disoriented. They can summon voices, illusions, and mist so thick you can't see your own hand in front of your face. You'll have to trust your sense of touch, because if you let go, you might not be able to find me again. So don't. Let. Go."

Jaskier nods jerkily, fisting his hand in the fabric of Geralt's pants. "Right." He says, voice just a touch strangled. "Right. No letting go. Got it." Geralt gives his hand one last squeeze, then returns to the reigns, urging Roach forward once more. Jaskier presses in close as they walk, and after a moment, his other hand comes up and he buries it in the fabric as well, right next to his first. Geralt can't help the affectionate smile that works its way onto his face, and for a moment he's glad the fog is there to obscure it.

"Not much farther, now." He says a little more gently. "Just don't want any trouble before even getting the contract."

Jaskier nods again, shoulders relaxing slightly, but maintaining his grip. "How much farther?"

"Within the half-hour. Probably less." 

His shoulders relax another inch. "Good. I'd like to get out of this fog-- dampness is _awful_ for my darling lute. They do poorly in humidity, you know, it can warp the wood."

"Suppose it isn't good for your hair or your complexion either, hmm?" Geralt says teasingly, leg warm from the contact, from Jaskier's hands resting against him. 

"Hey, now, no need to mock my pain," he chides, "my darling is a sensitive beast! She's _fragile_ , needs a lot of tender love and care and fine-tuned maintenance. Just like your swords."

"I stab monsters with my swords, Jaskier." He says bluntly, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Hardly a tender action, plunging something into monster guts."

"Maybe not, but I've seen how meticulously you clean them, the time you take to oil and sharpen." He explains, a finality to his tone. "They're your tools of the trade, and you know them intimately, because you have to trust them with your life. Well, my girl is the tool of my trade-- her, and my voice. So, they must be treated the same. Oiled and sharpened and tuned, and kept out of overly damp or humid environments whenever possible." 

Geralt is silent for a moment. He hadn't realize Jaskier had been watching him that closely, to notice that sort of thing... but then, it'd be hard to miss when they're sitting around a fire, nothing else to do but clean a day's work from his blade. And it's not as though he'd missed the way Jaskier fawns over his instrument-- though, Geralt's gaze held different motivations when it drank in the sight of Jaskier, didn't it?

The smile on his lips is entirely fond when he speaks. "Then it's a good thing we're nearly in town, hm?"

"Yes," Jaskier returns, his own playful grin lighting up his whole face, "it is."

* * *

There is, indeed, a contract out for the foglet. 

Geralt is almost thrown off-guard by his own enthusiasm, feet begging to move, senses on high alert now that his mind and his body have both cottoned on to the fact that they're _working a contract._

He heads straight to the woods, Jaskier trailing after him. He says a few cursory warnings, telling Jaskier that he should stay back, but they both know that isn't going to happen. "And miss the chance to see my witcher back in action, finally? I think not." Jaskier responds with a cheeky smile.

Geralt is too keyed up to fight him on it, body and mind turned towards the trees, the unnatural mist creeping amongst their branches. 

The fog creeps around him as well, enveloping him, curling around his limbs, and he takes a deep breath as he reaches for his sword, widens his stance, taking stock of his surroundings. The dampness of the air feels nice against his throat, but heavy in his lungs-- but that observation is a distant thing he doesn't really register, all his attention focused on the landscape in front of him. The fog's getting thicker now, which means the foglet must know, must be nearby. His fingers _itch_ with the urge to fight, but his mind stays calm, eyes sharp, as he scans, back and forth, through the trees, and-- _there_ , to his left, just the slightest curling of the fog in a way that it shouldn't, the tiniest shimmer in the sunlight that shouldn't quite be--

He casts Aard with a flick of his wrist, and it instantly sweeps away a wide swath of fog, knocking back the foglet and forcing it into tangibility in one fell swoop. It screeches at him angrily and lunges, arms flailing-- and now that he can see it properly, it is a young one. 

The fight's over fast, and Geralt walks away with barely a nick and a decent trophy to show for it. The day isn't even half over, he's buzzing with energy and hanging around town for an entire day, just to get a room for the night, seems like a waste. Either Jaskier is as keyed up as he is, or simply senses how badly he needs it, because he makes no complaints when Geralt turns in the contract and sets back out on the road again.

They don't make it exceedingly far from town, but as they both settle in around a fire, some of the excess energy worked off from moving, nothing but the night sky looking down on them, a sense of peace envelops their camp.

* * *

Later that night, he hears Jaskier, already working on a composition about the foglet. There wasn't really a lot to work with, in his opinion, but Jaskier is managing to weave something out of it. The words are still rough, early a draft as it is, but there's something in there about inhumanly sharp senses and waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. There's tension in the majority of it, before a little after halfway through, the description of the actual fight itself starts, seemingly mimicking the flow of the battle, the waiting before the sudden first strike. It's impressive, especially considering how recent it is-- seems as though Jaskier's been bit by the writing bug. Just as anxious for new material as Geralt, then. 

What really sticks out to him, though, is the choice of the foglet, specifically. "You skipped the grave hag." Geralt says, as much a question as a statement.

"So I have." Jaskier says simply, without looking up, as he crosses something out in his journal.

Geralt huffs a little. Of course the bard chooses now to be obtuse. "So you're skipping it? No ballad of the hag?"

"No." He says firmly. He pauses again, still staring at his book. He crosses one more thing out, then drums his fingers against the side, as if in thought. "Perhaps a poem, but not one meant for recitation."

Geralt's brow furrows. "What's the point of a poem that isn't meant to be recited? Isn't that the point of... of art? To show it to people?"

"The point of art is to create. Other people don't factor into it in the slightest. Or, at least, they don't have to. I like making art you share-- I love seeing how people react to it, how it effects them, part of the art of a song I write is in the reaction it gets. That's part of the performance, part of the desired result. Part of the art is in how a crowd cheers, or when their eyes fill with tears. But it doesn't have to involve people, that's a choice." He flips back a page, then forward again, and makes another note.

Geralt absorbs this. He doesn't fully understand, but he considers Jaskier's words carefully anyway. "Why make that choice, then?"

"Too personal." Jaskier's gaze finally flicks up, and he smiles. "Music, poetry... my words. They're how I work through things, dear. I need to get the words out eventually, or they'll drive me mad. Doesn't mean I need them announced to a crowd to be picked apart and digested." Then his eyes are back on the book and that seems to be that. 

"Hm." 

Jaskier huffs out a laugh. 

* * *

Geralt coughs up three more flowers that night, but they come up easier than before, and he'd been able to resist the urge all day. Yen's tea is definitely helping. 

As the last petal falls from his lips, he hears Jaskier's words echo in his mind-- _have to get them out eventually, or they'll drive me mad._

Somehow, he doesn't think poetry'll help him.

* * *

Now that they're moving again, they hit their stride quickly and with ease. They're in and out of the next two towns like clockwork, spring in their steps and coin in their pocket. 

It isn't until the third town that they finally hit another stumbling block.

He's been contracted to take out some drowners, which don't pose an issue normally. The fight's going well, he's skipping back out of their swiping range with ease, herding them with blasts of Igni that leave their skin charred. He feels good, in control-- the grave hag occupying his mind less and less with each successful contract under his belt. Just as he takes out the second of four total, a fifth drowner lurking just below the water's surface darts a hand out and grabs his ankle. He barely has enough time to suck in a lungful of air before he's dragged under the surface.

This, in and of itself, isn't a huge issue. He should've noticed the extra drowner, of course, but these things happen. And he's used to the 'being dragged under' part, too, it's a common drowner tactic-- hence the name. Being water-based creatures, they move faster than he ever could in their element, but before this one can pull away-- before it's gotten him to the lake bottom like it wants-- he wraps his other leg around it to keep it where he wants it, and drives his sword down in one smooth motion. It squirms and struggles as blood explodes in the water, permeating everything, cloudy and red, obscuring his vision.

It doesn't take long for it to stop struggling altogether, and even less time for its friends to join them underwater. They swipe and grab, bite and tear, swimming fast and navigating the bloody, opaque water with ease, but again, this is all easy enough to account for. He swims backwards, parries, casts Quen at the right moments and watches their claws bounce off, revealing openings to exploit. 

What he can't account for, is how quickly he's running out of air. His lungs start burning faster than ever, body begging for oxygen, and his mind whirls as he tries to figure out what the fuck is going on. 

One drowner swims straight for him, an uncomplicated frontal assault, and he uses its momentum against it, waits for his moment and strikes out, impaling it on his sword, but focused as he is on that and his urge for breath, he doesn't notice the one beneath him, grabbing him again, yanking him lower. It startles some air out of his lungs, and he can only watch helplessly as the bubbles float to the surface. Fuck.

As he strikes out, kicking the thing away from his ankle, it hits him none too subtly. _Shit,_ he thinks as his heel connects with the drowner's head, _reduced lung capacity. Of course._

He mentally squirrels the information away, then returns to the task at hand. 

It lunges, bounces off Quen. He strikes out, and it twists away, his blade only nicking its side. His lungs burn, and more air escapes his mouth-- he has to get to the surface, soon. He can't swing underwater, though, has to thrust it out, like a fencing rapier, and none of his signs will be effective underwater, other than his shield. He's playing on the defensive. 

He sees it, swimming just out of reach, waiting for an opening, and he goes still. He needs to end this. He needs to bait it into striking. He closes his eyes, lets his body go lax.

Drowners are not very bright creatures.

It strikes out immediately, grabbing at his ankle once more, and Geralt acts. He grips the hilt of his sword and thrusts down, straight into the juncture of its shoulder and neck. It screeches and lets him go, pawing at the wound, but its windpipe is slashed, it's bleeding profusely-- the drowner won't survive much longer. 

Geralt breaks the surface of the water with a ragged gasp that quickly devolves into a coughing fit. He drags himself onto the shore on his hands and knees, and Jaskier is right there, running towards him despite the dangers, shouting his name, pulling him forward by the armor. He doesn't particularly need it, but he allows Jaskier the fretting as he twists and collapses on his back in the dirt. "'M fine, Jask. Just winded." He pants out, wet hair sticking to his face. 

"Are you sure?" He asks, then adds "Are they all dead?"

Geralt looks up at him sharply. "You ran straight into drowner infested waters, not knowing if they were all dead yet?"

"I had to get you out of the water!" Jaskier looks so genuinely concerned. Geralt groans loudly and squeezes his eyes shut, letting his head fall back against the dirt. "What? You can't honestly expect me to just sit there and do nothing, can you? Of course I pulled you out."

Geralt opens his eyes just enough to squint up at Jaskier. "Don't. Do it. Again."

"Are you alright?" Jaskier ignores the warning entirely, and his tone pivots a little, goes a little more serious. He pushes some of Geralt's hair away from his forehead.

His first instinct is to hide it. To lie, keep Jaskier from worrying, keep Jaskier from viewing him as weak-- keep Jaskier from wanting to leave. But... the tiny spark of hope in his chest has him pausing. Maybe... maybe... "My lungs," he says, glancing hesitantly at Jaskier, "they... I can't hold my breath as long as I used to. Reduced capacity."

"Because of the flowers lining them..." Jaskier extrapolates, brow furrowed. Geralt nods in response. "That's awful. Does it hurt?"

Geralt shrugs, watching Jaskier, trying to gauge his reaction. Lake water drips from his temple down into his ear. "Just, uh. Just a bit wheezy, it's not really... pain, exactly. Just a full feeling."

"Damn. I'm sorry." Jaskier looks at him and fixes him with a smile. "But, as always, thank you for letting me know." He taps his chin thoughtfully and stares off into space as he continues speaking. "Maybe we could do something about it? Try to clear your lungs before a contract, maybe? Like, try to cough up whatever you can beforehand. Could avoid contracts with drowners... or maybe draw them away from the water? So they can't drag you under, I mean..."

Geralt is hit with the same rush he gets every time he reveals something to Jaskier and is met with total acceptance. Pure relief, thoughts a litany of _he's staying, he's staying, he's still here, he's not going to leave._

Geralt stares up at him. _Thank you. Thank you for staying. Thank you for not hating me._ The words rest on his lips, sit directly behind his teeth, but he swallows them down.

The hairline fracture deepens.


	10. Chapter 10

So, they adjust. Geralt's more careful around bodies of water on contracts. More mindful of his own breathing. Just one more thing to monitor in the heat of battle, another consideration to keep in mind, like whether his blades have been oiled, or how many enemies he's facing, whether to use Aard or Igni. 

This, at least, is something Geralt's used to. Learning how to work around pain.

* * *

The thing about the tea is, it's a trade-off. He can control his coughing fits, to a degree, and the flowers(as far as he can tell, anyway) have stopped spreading. They won't overtake his lungs and suffocate him from the inside anytime soon, which is a bonus, no matter how you look at it. But his lungs _feel_ fuller, they're heavy, and he wheezes more now. Some mornings, he can barely summon the energy to sit up, breath shallow and eyes unfocused.

He does it anyway, though. Not much good to the world in bed, and he _can_ get up, so to do anything else would be laziness, and he's never been particularly good at being lazy.

Maybe... maybe when he was a child, but... well. That's hardly a productive line of thought, so he doesn't bother. 

He figures that it's probably because he's clearing them less often. Less coughing fits, more build-up, heavier lungs. But he can't seem to find more time to deal with them-- he's too busy or too exposed most of the time, the only safe moments are in their room at whatever inn they're staying at, or once they've set up camp, and even then Geralt tries to keep it away from Jaskier. He knows Jaskier wouldn't be cruel about it, now, and he knows Jaskier wouldn't run for the hills at the sight of him, but... but Jaskier always looks so _sad_ when he clears his lungs. He doesn't want to burden Jaskier any further. He strays from camp, waits until Jaskier is getting a bath... whatever he can do to keep it to himself, keep it at least semi-hidden. 

So he just accepts that this is how things are going to be. It's not like Yen didn't warn him, he knew what he was getting into. And when he wakes up in the mornings to see Jaskier, still asleep, curled up in his own bedroll... it's more than worth it. The pain is nothing if it means he gets more of this.

* * *

The only thing that seems to make his lungs feel any lighter these days are confessions.

He gets into the habit of it almost frighteningly easy-- little things, almost like breadcrumbs, little kernels of the truth. Geralt lets slip an update on how his lungs feel that day, or how it affected his last contract-- or, one memorable time when he told Jaskier he liked his new song-- and each time he gets a bright smile and a thank you, and each time the honesty falls from his lips a little easier, a little more thoughtlessly. 

He lays awake at night, agonizing over how easy it is to just... _say_ things to Jaskier. He knows he shouldn't, but sometimes it's just so damn _easy_. 

More cracks are starting to form, splintering apart from each other, and some nights it leaves Geralt unsteady on his feet. On those nights, the pillar is suddenly something else entirely, something like a pedestal, not holding up his resolve, not keeping anything from collapsing in on him, but instead holding him up, far above the ground, away from every danger that comes from exposing yourself to that kind of hurt, away from the vulnerability of an open plain. 

And that pedestal is cracking.

He's on the precipice of something big, something all-consuming, and the ground beneath him is starting to crumble.

On those nights, he lets out a shaky breath, rolls onto his side, curls in close. Tries to compartmentalize, like always, like he's had to do so many times before to keep going. 

On those nights, Geralt is suddenly very small, and very exposed, and he knows the crash is coming soon.

On those nights, he prays that it's a few more days before his world falls apart around him. 

By the time he wakes up in the morning, lungs full, chest heavy, Jaskier nearby and asleep and lovely, he rises, and he makes his tea, and he resolutely does not think about it. This is another skill born from practice. The edge is coming quickly, the ground is rising to meet him, but the morning is always quiet and calm, and this, Geralt knows how to deal with. The living with it, the morning after, the ignoring the fallout. This, at least, Geralt can do.

On these mornings, Jaskier rises, slow and sleep-warm. Shuffles over to where Geralt sits, settles himself closer than he needs to. Rests a tired head on Geralt's shoulder. "Rough night?" He'll ask, voice still rough himself. He always knows, and Geralt can't suss out the how of it. 

"Trouble sleeping," he'll say softly, because it's true, and every time Jaskier hums in response, smiles, rubs his face against Geralt's shoulder like an affectionate cat. Thanks him for his honesty. And each time Geralt will feel lighter, lighter-- or maybe that sensation is falling, but he's too love-drunk to figure out the difference. They both feel the same, so either he's floating or he's falling, and either way, he'll deal with the landing later on.

* * *

The merchant town on the horizon is a welcome change from the steady supply of minuscule hamlets they'd been wandering through recently. Nothing wrong with smaller towns and villages, of course, but variety is the spice of life-- didn't hurt that places like this usually had enough coin to actually pay well, either. And, of course, Jaskier always got excited at the prospect of fine food and finer textiles.

Geralt didn't quite get it, and figured he never would, but it was quite a sight, Jaskier flitting about like a small bird, eyes gleaming. 

They'd passed and been passed by a handful of merchants on their way to ply their trade, so the two of them had a rough idea of what to expect, and Jaskier can hardly contain himself. "Or, perhaps, do you think they'll have a book binder? I could get a new journal, too, especially if they appreciate my music at the local tavern."

Geralt tilts his head curiously. "Do you need a new one? Thought your current one still had space."

"It does, yes, but it's getting full, and I'd hate to finish it on the road with no chance at a replacement." He explains, eyes still fixed on the town ahead. "Plus, I need to let the new one breathe, you know? It needs to get a feel for my work, and I need to really understand it. It's a working relationship, and if I don't know the thing, how can we work together? How could I pour my heart out to unfamiliar leather?"

Geralt snorts, rolling his eyes at Jaskier's dramatics. "You pour your heart out every day to unfamiliar people. Don't see what makes leather any different."

It's Jaskier's turn to tilt his head, eyeing Geralt consideringly. "Hmm. Is that what I do?" This gives Geralt pause, and a smile grows on Jaskier's face. "I have plenty I keep to myself." His eyes flick down, go unfocused for a moment, before meeting Geralt's again. "And I need a good friend, someone I trust, to filter these through. Hence the need for a trustworthy journal."

 _Too personal... don't want it announced to a crowd, picked apart and digested._ Geralt considers this for a moment. Jaskier always seems to find new ways to surprise him, but he supposed it made sense-- everyone has secrets. He clears his throat, breaking eye contact to stare at the road ahead, the nearing city. "Journal's a journal. Can't be trustworthy or backstabbing-- it's just paper."

Jaskier laughs and shakes his head. "You don't have a single romantic bone in your body, do you?"

"Not really, no."

* * *

When they finally enter the town, they're greeted by the sight of a rather nervous looking man hovering near the notice board. Geralt and Jaskier exchange a look, but before either can say anything, the man spots them and calls them over. "You're a witcher, yes?" He asks, wringing his hands.

Geralt nods. "I am."

He heaves a sigh of relief, clasping his hands in front of him. "Thank Melitele the news of one of your guild heading our way was correct, for we are in desperate need of your services." He pauses, and Geralt nods for him to continue. "You see, we had some bandits--"

Geralt holds up a hand. "I'm not a mercenary. I don't take up contracts on humans, no matter the coin."

The man huffs a little, adjusts his doublet. "Yes, yes, you're very moral, lovely. But if you'd _listen_ to me, you'd hear that I used the past tense. _Had_. As in, have no longer." Geralt's brow twitches in irritation at the man's tone, but he continues, undeterred. "Anyway, as I was saying, we _had_ some bandits holed up in a cave west of our town. They'd ambush people, steal their coin or their life-- usual bandit fare. We were trying to figure out the best recourse, when... when the spiders came."

"Spiders?" Geralt raises a brow. "Sounds like you need a boot, not a witcher."

"If you have a boot large enough to flatten a spider twice as wide as a man is tall, with the height to match, then I'll gladly borrow it." He says dryly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Ah," Geralt nods, pieces coming together, "not spiders, then, arachnomorphs."

"Call them bloody Queen of Cintra, I don't care, what they are is absolutely fuckoff sized spiders, and they're a menace, alright? We don't know if somehow the bandits attracted them, or if the spiders already lived in the cave and the bandits just enraged them-- all we know is they're in the cave now, and they're angry." He rubs the back of his neck, averts his eyes. "At first... at first it was a _relief_ , honestly. But we quickly came to realize, bandits leave you your life if you leave them your coin. Spiders give no such respite."

He sighs a little heavier, looking run down. "They don't take out a lot of people, as far as we can tell, but it's a steady number. Or it was anyway, until travel from the western roads started to peter off, after news of our issue spread. Now the spiders are getting hungry, moving their hunting grounds closer and closer to town, and we've lost practically all foot traffic coming from the west. An entire cardinal direction! Our town's built on being at a crossroads, witcher. If it keeps up much longer, the effects could be... devastating."

Any irritation is long forgotten in the face of the genuine weariness the man carries. "I'll take care of them."

* * *

"Are you sure about this?" Jaskier asks, once they're outside the ealdorman's hearing, fiddling nervously with the clasps on his doublet. "I mean... an entire nest of arachnomorphs? With your lungs? We're only just now figuring out how to work around it, too... This is a big contract, Geralt."

"What would you have me do?" He responds. "Leave them to die? I've dealt with worse than arachnomorphs, and this--"

"Yes, yes, _this is the job_. I know." Jaskier huffs a little, screws up his face. "I just-- I worry about you."

"Yeah," Geralt says softly, "I know."

"And, hey," Jaskier steps out in front of Geralt, stops him short with a hand on his chest. "You swore to me you wouldn't rush into things again." He says sternly, drawing himself up to his full height to stare Geralt down. "You said it, and I cried a little, in a very manly and dignified way, and so you're absolutely not allowed to take it back. So. You can actually handle this, right? Because if you can't, and you get yourself--" his breath stutters, "well. I'm going to drag you out of your grave with my bare hands to teach you a lesson, understood?"

Geralt's breath catches in his throat too. It takes him a beat longer than it should to respond. "I'm sure you will, bard." That has Jaskier's lips quirking up, and he places his hand over Jaskier's, grips it encouragingly. "And I can handle it. I swear."

Jaskier nods, glances between his face and their hands. "Good. Good. You better, or else--"

"Or else you'll teach me a lesson, as you've said." 

"Right. And don't you forget it."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

Geralt scouts out the cave in question. Uses a copious amount of Insectoid oil on his silver blade. Lets it really seep into the metal, then uses it again for good measure. Checks and double checks and triple checks everything. He isn't nervous, precisely, but he said he'd be careful, and... well. Jaskier was right, it _is_ a big contract. Bigger than the grave hag had been, and that hadn't exactly turned out in his favor. He has the tea now, of course, but... still. Better safe than sorry. 

He sits outside the cave, early enough in the morning that it's unlikely the nest'll be active. From descriptions he'd gotten from the ealdorman-- the cave used to be used as a sort of makeshift storehouse, on occasion, which is what had drawn the bandits-- he has a rough idea of the depth and dimensions of the thing. Only so many arachnomorphs could fit in the space described, so Geralt has an idea of what he's about to be up against, and he considers the potions in his hands. Cat and Golden Oriole. 

He knows, from experience, just how agonizing it can be to finish a fight with witcher potions still coursing through your veins. That burn, the ache, the uncontrollable urge to _move_ , that unnameable anxiety that demands you get up and fight an enemy that no longer exists. But then again, witchers have died underestimating their opponents, taking too little of a needed potion. 

It's a weighty consideration.

He finally decides on a full dose of Oriole and a half dose of Cat. He knows how long this fight should last, and excess Cat is its own special hell, with how it opens his senses, pushes them even further beyond the usual limits of the human body, but he has no interest in playing fast and loose with increasing his chances of succumbing to arachnomorph venom, combination paralytic and digestive agent that it is. He can sweat Oriole out later with relative ease-- Cat would leave him stuck in the cave, attacking corpses just to quell the nonsense panic thrumming in his blood.

He checks everything one last time, then takes the desired doses. Here, in the morning light outside the cave, he feels nearly blind as the effects kick in, and he squints against it. "You'll stay out here."

"For once, we're in agreement on that." Jaskier says, giving an exaggerated shudder. "Sounds like it'll be a madhouse in there."

Geralt nods once, adjusts his grip on his silver sword. "You hear anything at all approach the entrance, get on Roach and don't stop 'till you reach town."

Jaskier looks startled. "Wh-- and just leave you behind? I think the hell not, Geralt!" 

He can already feel it, that humming in his blood, begging for a fight, and he doesn't have _time_ to deal with Jaskier. He grabs Jaskier roughly by the front of his doublet and yanks him in close. Growls out "Anything. You hear fucking anything, you run. Roach will be able to outrun one-- just one, and just barely. You don't stand a chance."

He's going for intimidating, but Jaskier meets his pitch black eyes with ease, looking more curious than anything else. His fingers brush Geralt's temple softly, right where he knows his veins stand out, dark and black from his witcher potion, and he flinches back from the touch. "Alright," Jaskier says softly, "I understand. Easy, dear." Geralt shudders a little, loosens his grip. "And, Geralt... good luck." He leans in and hugs Geralt around the shoulders, tugging him into a tight grip. Geralt nods against him, but Jaskier seems to understand that anything else is a bit... much for him right now, and after a moment he pulls back. 

Then Geralt's up, stalking towards the cave entrance, and that's that. 

* * *

Geralt creeps into the cave, movements slow and controlled. There's a sound, deeper in, the clack-clack-patter of a hardened carapace scuttering across stone. He can see it, little back and forth movements in the gloom, but it hasn't seemed to notice him yet, so he takes careful strides to consider the space before he starts a fight. There are corpses scattered across the floor, some with fineries and some in leathers, some slight and some with weapon in hand, and all with a layer of webbing over the top. 

The arachnomorphs must've been there a while, because the webbing is truly everywhere. Painted up and down the walls, crisscrossing the ceiling... The cave is small, maybe a little smaller than reported, or possibly just seems that way with all the silk encroaching on the open space. 

He crouches lower, eases a foot closer. As he focuses, he realizes what the movement in the back is-- a single arachnomorph, checking on a few clutches of egg sacs. _Fuck._ They're big, too, late stage, fit to hatch any moment now. His eyes sweep over the space one last time-- a huddle of sleeping arachnomorphs in the right-hand corner, anything from four to six in the pile, one awake tending to the young, and three egg sacs that he can see. 

_Fuck._

He takes a deep breath, and uses Igni to ignite the webbing on the left-hand wall.

It goes up instantly, and he has to protect his eyes against the sudden light. The flames sweep across the room, climbing up the webbing strewn over the wall, incinerating a clutch right beneath its caretaker's jaws. The arachnomorph screeches, scuttering away from the fire before rounding on him. Its friends wake as well, rearing back before descending on him in a barely trackable flurry of movement.

There are too many of them to follow, and they're fast, too. They surround him quickly, and he barely has time to roll out of the way when the first lunges for him. He's not focused on them, though-- he's focused on the remaining two egg sacs. He casts Yrden as he rolls and bolts for the back wall. They try to follow, but some get caught in his trap, pinned and slowed within the sign's confines, and the rest have to divert their course, scuttering around their allies to reach Geralt.

Another throw of Igni, but this one goes wide as an arachnomorph slams into his side, flames curling up into the air and dissipating into nothing. He grits his teeth and brings his sword down as he kicks out at the same time. His blade hits at just the right angle, slicing through the joint of its front leg, throwing it off balance and bleeding, shoving away its staggering form as he rolls back onto his feet, easy as anything. 

The second egg sac goes up in flames. Just one left, now-- one clutch, and at least five very pissed off, fully grown arachnomorphs. Geralt allows himself one, emphatic " _Fuck._ " 

He returns his attention back to the task at hand. 

They seem to have caught on to his plan, because two now stand between him and the final egg sac. The rest, now free of Yrden, circle him like vultures. From his left comes a web that he tries to roll out of the way of, but it catches him by the foot, trapping him in place for a moment. His blade cuts through the webbing easily enough, but in that second of disentangling himself, he hears a hiss from behind his back, and that's all the warning he gets before something slams into him, knocking him forward to the ground. 

The weight against his back increases, and he hears the creature's jaw clicking near his ear. He can barely wheeze, pinned as he is, and his neck lights up in pain as the beast sinks its fangs in, as the potion in his blood works to burn out the venom, neutralize it before any damage can be done.

The arachnomorph clearly expects that to be enough, because it leans back a bit, and Geralt uses the opening to flip his sword around and plunge it behind him, same motion for sheathing his sword, except this time the sheath is the beast's head. It screeches, staggers, stumbling backwards, pulling itself off of his sword in its haste. Ichor spills from its body, painting Geralt's back in warm, sticky blood, and he hurries to his feet, kicking off the last vestiges of webbing as he does. 

He's already breathing harder than he should be.

Fuck, fuck, _Fuck._

The arachnomorphs skitter around the edges of his vision as he rights himself, panting. He whips his head around, trying to track them, and for a moment they continue like that, considering each other. He can't afford to get any more swarmed than he already is. Igni won't reach far enough to ignite the eggs from where he stands, but he doesn't have time to fight his way through the hoard to get to them. He gets a stupid, reckless idea, but the odd stalemate they're in is coming to an end, the arachnomorphs hissing and clicking around him. He doesn't have time to think of a more elegant solution.

He unsheathes his steel blade, grips it tight, and tosses it at the remaining egg sac like a spear. 

It whirls through the air, right between the final sac's would-be protectors, and sinks into the eggs, cracking them and killing whatever young might've been inside. 

Relief courses through him. Three out of three-- no need to worry about any hatching. He turns his attention back to the adults as they descend upon him, furious, but he catches them at the height of their arc with a blast of Aard that sends them flying. They land on their backs, squirming, struggling to right themselves, and Geralt runs his silver blade right through one's thorax. Its long, sharp legs strike out, attempting to right itself, to stab him, anything, but it's futile. He pulls his blade back out as its struggles begin to peter off and jumps back into the fray.

The fight becomes something of a blur-- dodging and rolling, flashes of Igni to push them back, Axii to daze them long enough for him to get in close, get in a few good swipes, before he's pushed back, on the defensive. 

He pants harshly, trying to pull in air, lungs heavy, chest tight. The one he'd de-limbed earlier advances on him, lumbering and off-kilter, and he spins to the side, picks off another of its limbs-- the middle one on its right side-- and it stumbles back again as he does the same, struggling for a moment of respite. A web wraps around his left hand, tugs him sideways and renders him signless, while another arachnomorph comes at him from his sword side. Its fangs sink into his thigh, tearing the armor and making his leg burn, but he plunges his sword down, right through its head.

The other arachnomorph tugs again, nearly dislodging his blade from his hand as it pulls harder and harder, yanking him closer to its clacking jaws. He swings wide, slicing through the web and one side of its jaws, and he jumps backward. The edges of his vision are starting to go dark, and for a split second he thinks he's passing out, unable to get enough air-- but then he realizes. Cat's already wearing off. How much time had he wasted on the egg sacs? How long had he been dodging? It's a blur, and one he doesn't have time to dissect. He'd underestimated the battle. _Fuck._

He can still see, even as it wears off, but the edges of everything, the individual limbs of each arachnomorph, become indistinct. He can't breathe, and he can't see, and there's at least two of the things left.

At least he's not bleeding out-- but that'll change soon, with the way his steps are flagging. 

He can't keep dodging forever.

He baits one forward, feints, then casts Yrden at his feet just as he dodges, leaves the beast squirming in its confines, slashes at its abdomen, but the other is hot on his heels, clacking and chasing, and he has to abandon the one in his trap, hoping he did enough damage to put it out of commission entirely. The one pushing him back lunges with its leg, as if attempting to pierce him through, but he parries the limb in the nick of time. It grazes his size, glancing off his armor, but only barely. He casts Igni once more, intending to give himself some room, but the arachnomorph's hair catches, and the whole beast erupts into flames. It scrambles around, panicked, trying to put itself out, and he takes the opportunity to return to the trapped one. Yrden is just starting to dissipate as he brings down his sword, severing its abdomen entirely and it falls to the ground, dead.

He rounds on the scorched arachnomorph. The fire's gone out, but the damage is extensive. It shakes a little as it attempts to pounce on him, and he dodges out of the way. He notices, distantly, that he's shaking as well. Exhaustion is starting to catch up to him. He launches himself forward, and the arachnomorph is impaled on his sword. It twitches a few last times before collapsing.

He stands there for a moment, waiting for movement, before stumbling backwards, leaning against the cave wall to attempt to catch his breath.

The edges of his vision swim, and this time, it isn't a potion wearing off. He's close to hyperventilating, so desperate for a decent lungful of air, and he has to force himself to slow down and breathe normally.

After several minutes of pained gasping, he hears Jaskier's voice from the entrance. A tentative, "Is it over?"

He hadn't even heard Jaskier coming. He must be truly exhausted to have not heard the bard. He shakes his head a little in an attempt to clear it. "Jaskier," he starts, then--

Then he hears a clicking.

His head whips up and he watches with dawning horror as a final arachnomorph descends from the ceiling. It's missing two limbs-- the one he'd taken swipes at earlier. How had he not fucking noticed? How had he not seen? It must've retreated in the heat of battle, and he never noticed that all the arachnomorphs he'd slain had all their limbs. "Jaskier!" He shouts, panic seeping into his tone as he pushes himself off from the wall, "Get out, now!" 

It's big, and it's angry, and two limbs getting chopped off weren't enough to make it back down. It'd tear through Jaskier like paper if it ever got to him. 

Before he has a chance to strike, it launches a web that hits him square in the chest. The force of it knocks his sword out of his hands and traps them against his torso in a crushing embrace. He stumbles backward, out of breath and weaponless, and when the monster tugs, it pulls him off his feet. He slams into the ground hard, smacking his head on the stone hard enough he sees stars. Gasping fruitlessly, he plants his feet as best he can, but he can't overpower it like this. He's dragged, agonizingly slow, towards the jaws of the beast, inch by inch. 

It scuttles over his feet and he kicks out, but it pays him no mind. It's hovering right above him, huge and angry and hissing, and for a moment, Geralt's convinced this is it. This is the end. His head's swimming, ribs crushed beneath so much spider silk, he's got no weapon. Venom seers his neck where it drips onto him. It's going to bite him, and bite him, and eventually Golden Oriole will wear off, and that-- that'll be it. 

Suddenly the arachnomorph staggers to the side. He stares up at it, uncomprehending, then he hears-- "Get the fuck off of him!"

Jaskier, in the mouth of the cave, holding a--

a crossbow?

The realization strikes Geralt suddenly. The bandits. Their weapons. They'd died fighting, weapons in hand. Jaskier had dug a crossbow out of the hands of a corpse.

He's scrambling to reload it now, and Geralt knows from experience the tension those things require. He has the end propped up on the ground, both hands on the string, clearly slicing into his fingers, leaving them bloody and raw. He has to lift his foot as well, lean his body weight against all three limbs to set the string back.

As he works, the beast shakes itself out of its reverie and screeches, moving to leave Geralt in favor of this new offender, and Geralt lets out a roar. "Eyes on me, you filthy beast!" He strikes out, kicks it right in the head, and it staggers backwards from the force of the blow, turning its attention back on him. Pulls him right back under, ready to make a meal of him.

When Jaskier's finished, his hands are shaking-- pain, strain, adrenaline, and he lifts the crossbow again, ready to let loose another arrow. "The head!" Geralt shouts, feet scrambling for purchase on the stone beneath him, trying to scoot out from under the arachnomorph, but it's a fruitless task. It just pulls him back under again. "You have to hit it in the head!" Crossbow bolts to the abdomen would take too many shots, he'd never take it down in time. 

"I-- I can't, my aim's not good enough, I'll hit you!" He calls back, and Geralt can see the tremor get a little worse, but, he can't-- he can't worry about that, because there's no _time._

"Now, Jaskier!" He shouts, the jaws getting closer and closer, " _Please!_ " Desperation seeps into his voice. He can't keep distracting it forever, and he can't watch it turn on Jaskier, he can't. More venom drips on his neck, and it burns in a way it shouldn't. Oriole's wearing off, if the arachnomorph bites him now-- He turns wild eyes towards Jaskier, just as Jaskier lets the final bolt fly.


	11. Chapter 11

The arachnomorph twitches once, twice. The whole world seems frozen for a moment as Geralt stares up in shock at the bolt buried square in the side of its head. There's a swell of emotions, astonishment, shock, relief, pride-- because Jaskier _did it,_ he actually-- and then, finally, the beast collapses. It falls directly on him, crushing his already painfully compressed lungs under its impressive weight, and any air left in him is pushed out in a sudden, forceful wheeze.

Jaskier shouts his name and abandons the crossbow, dashing across the cave to try and remove the arachnomorph's bulk from Geralt's prone form. His hands grope for purchase, grabbing at the thing's legs to try and tug it away, but it's too heavy, it doesn't budge. Geralt's already oxygen-deprived body begs for air quickly. Spots are dancing across his vision, and he can do nothing to help, pinned as he is. Pinned like-- well. Like a fly in a spider's web. He'd appreciate the irony if he had the capacity for conscious thought. His head tilts back as his body tries fruitlessly to gasp for air, and beside him Jaskier makes a noise of pure despair. "No," he says emphatically, eyes flashing with rage, " _no,_ not now, not--"

He adjusts his posture, widens his stance, plants his feet more firmly. He reaches down, hands trying to find purchase on the underside of its thorax, and he grits his teeth as he grips tight and begins to lift. "I said, get the fuck _off_ of him!" He shouts, legs beginning to tremble already from the strain of trying to wrestle the corpse, and he grips even tighter, leans his shoulder against it's side for extra leverage. "You-- you fucking, son of a bitch, thrice-damned spider, get _off!_ " Sweat beads on his brow, but he just redoubles his effort, digging his heels into the stone beneath his feet, throwing all his weight into the impossible task.

And then, slowly... the arachnomorph's body starts to move. It tilts to one side, just a bit, and the oppressive weight lessens little by little, inch by inch. Geralt gasps for what tiny snatches of air he can manage, darkness receding just a fraction, and he lashes out, kicking with his less pinned leg. It's more instinct than plan, and he's still mostly trapped by the beast's corpse, but he manages to scoot back a few centimeters. Jaskier's trembling has increased, his legs threatening to buckle under the weight, but he doesn't give. Geralt lashes out harder, Jaskier lifts higher-- just enough room now for Geralt to get one knee up, and he uses the the newfound leverage to push hard, sliding backwards, one inch, then another. He kicks out again and again, pressing himself back, even as the effort leaves his already abused lungs burning, makes his vision flicker uncertainly. Jaskier's starting to slip, just a bit, blood and sweat leaving him with little purchase, and Geralt lashes out one last time-- the force of it has him sliding the rest of the way free. He pulls his legs up and out of the way just as Jaskier's grip fails and the arachnomorph comes crashing down to the floor.

Jaskier doesn't give himself a moment's rest, rushing over to drag Geralt's body further away from the felled arachnomorph. Despite his newfound freedom, his breathing's still restricted, and he can feel everything starting to go sideways, the room tilting. "Cut it," Geralt manages to gasp out, though the words come out warped. For emphasis he struggles against the webbing, and Jaskier must understand him, because he lays Geralt down without another word and rushes off in search of his forgotten sword. It slices through his bonds with ease, just like it's supposed to, and Geralt gasps as the strands fall away, hacking and coughing on nothing-- not even flowers, just his own body's need for air. Jaskier drops the sword entirely, tosses it to the side as he falls to his knees besides Geralt, pawing at his arm.

"You swore to me," he sounds distraught, and he grips Geralt's arm even harder, leather creaking under his fingers, "you _swore_ \--"

"I'm sorry," Geralt manages between gasps, "I thought-- I really thought--" _I thought I could handle it, I thought it would be fine, I never meant to scare you._

Jaskier shakes his head, seems to pick up on everything Geralt's trying to say. "It's alright, it's fine, I just--" He manhandles Geralt's arm, pulling it up against his chest and wrapping his own arms around it in a mock-hug, clinging to Geralt while still giving him room to breathe. "I was just so worried..."

The cave's silence is broken only by the sound of Geralt's gasps, harsh against the quiet surrounding them. The moment settles over them as his breathing evens out, tapers off into a more reasonable pace.

Geralt stares up at him, at the unshed tears shining in his eyes, the slant of his shoulders, the slight tremble on the end of every exhale-- he stares up at his beautiful, brave boy, and finds himself breathless all over again. He twists his hand around in Jaskier's grip to clutch at his shirt. "You saved me..." Geralt mumbles, awe working its way into his tone.

"Yeah, and it was awful. Don't-- don't make me do it again, alright?" Jaskier sniffles weakly, grips Geralt's arm a little tighter.

"I just... Jaskier, you _saved_ me." Geralt repeats, drinking in the sight of him. Disheveled and alive and heartbreakingly lovely.

He laughs weakly. "Is this what it takes to get a compliment from you? First my doublet, now..." He shakes his head a little, brings a hand up to encircle Geralt's wrist. "...We're going to have to work on that, you know. I don't think I can handle many more of these."

"Wouldn't mean as much if I handed them out easily..." He mumbles, and Jaskier laughs again, a little stronger, some of the tension leaving his shoulders at the familiar back and forth. His fingers climb up, dip under the edge of Geralt's glove. For a moment he seems content to just stroke, but the urge for skin-on-skin contact is too strong, and soon he's working the leather up Geralt's hand until it's bunched up under his palm and he's forced to, reluctantly, relinquish his grip on Jaskier's doublet. 

Jaskier works it the rest of the way off and Geralt reaches out again, grabs at the clothing again, rubs the fabric between his thumb and forefinger for a moment. Jaskier's smile is entirely fond as he drops the glove and returns his fingers, resting them on Geralt's wrist for a moment before trailing them up his hand. He traces around Geralt's knuckles, circling them, then following the lines of his bones beneath his skin, down to his wrist, then back up again. Little nonsense patterns, touch light, movements a bit stiff from where the crossbow'd cut into him.

The simple touch-- so tender and affectionate and gentle-- is almost too much for him to bear. He's hyperaware of the skin there in a way he's never been before, and it makes his head spin. He feels pinned on the spot, unable to tear his eyes away from Jaskier.

The truth has always been something that weighed him down, something heavy on his chest, on his tongue, staying it against possible indiscretions. But now, staring up at Jaskier, it's something weightless, something powerful. It fills his chest with light and pushes out, out-- it crawls up his throat and brings with it the taste of flowers, sweet and lovely as it rolls over his tongue, beats behind his rib cage like the wings of a trapped bird that wants so badly to be free-- and he realizes, with startling clarity, that he wants it to be free too.

It sits where it always does, just behind his teeth, in the curl of his tongue, and it presses out, begging, begging, begging.

Jaskier's still there, tracing patterns, skin against skin, eyes as blue as a cloudless sky, radiating warmth and joy and relief and-- and home. He feels like home. _I love you._ Geralt almost startles himself with that thought. Had he ever actually strung the words together in his mind? Faced that particular truth in such a blunt manner? He knew it, of course, it was no mystery to him, but at the same time, since he knew it, he tried not to dwell on the particulars, but... here it is, staring him in the face, and it bounces around in his mind. Like an echo in a canyon, except it never diminishes, it never peters out, it just gets louder and louder, chasing away all other thoughts. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

He is so tired of feeling desperate. Of beating back the truth. He knows it's not fair to force this knowledge on Jaskier-- this is his problem to deal with, his burden to shoulder, he shouldn't weigh the bard down like that. It isn't fair to saddle Jaskier with the knowledge he's loved by a monster, especially one he's dedicated so much of his life to following around, one that will have to, at the very least, escort him back to the safety of the town still, but Geralt is so very weak, and he wants so badly.

And Jaskier is-- Jaskier is _nice._ Maybe... maybe Jaskier will just smile at him. _Thank you,_ he'll say, _for telling me._ Just like every other time, that bright little smile that comes with a confession, _I appreciate your honesty, dear friend._ And his hand will move away from Geralt's, from bare skin, but he'll still grasp at Geralt's forearm, and he'll say _I don't,_ and Geralt will cut him off, say _Don't worry, I never expected you to. I just needed to be honest,_ and Jaskier will smile even wider, because he obviously values honesty a lot, and they'll go back to normal, and Geralt will drink his tea every morning and evening because it's a confession unaccepted, which is-- it's fine, more than fine, it's perfect. Maybe everything would be fine.

"Don't get mad." His voice is so much smaller than he remembers it being.

Jaskier just shakes his head. "I wasn't mad, dear witcher, I was just scared."

Geralt grips Jaskier's doublet a little tighter as he sits up, repeats, "Don't get mad," and Jaskier's brow furrows in concern, "and don't leave."

"I'm not going anywhere, Geralt, I've told you that." The patterns stop. He curls his hand around Geralt's instead, gripping it gently. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"I mean," Geralt continues, as if Jaskier hadn't spoken, nervous and in his own head, "you can. If you want. I wouldn't stop you, I'd never try to..." He swallows hard, pushes back nectar and light and birdsong and _truth_ for a moment longer. "But... please. Just... wait until I'm done?"

"What are you _talking_ about? As if I'd save you from an arachnomorph just to turn tail and run..." He lets out a little disbelieving huff as he searches Geralt's face. His fingers still move, even as he grips Geralt's hand tighter, thumb sweeping across skin-- unable to keep himself from fidgeting with them. A nervous habit Geralt recognizes instantly, and it makes the feeling in his chest grow, the one he has for those hands, and the man they belong to, his habits and eccentricities and that little furrow of concentration that lives between his brows at moments like these, that all-encompassing feeling, his--

"Love," he says, a little breathlessly, "that's what makes the flowers grow. That's why I didn't want to tell you, why I kept it a secret so long. Because, to... to catch this illness, you have to fall in love."

"Oh," he says softly, "oh _Geralt,_ "

Before he can say anything else, Geralt cuts him off, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry I lied for so long, I..."

"It's alright," and something a little sad, a little mournful grips the edges of his expression, "really, I understand. It's okay," and the reassurances soothe something inside Geralt, until, "we'll find Yennefer, and--"

He can't help the way he physically recoils at her name. "Yen? Wh--" He can feel it, the moment his expression shutters off, can see it in Jaskier's growing concern as he reaches out. Geralt lets his own hand fall away from where it had been still gripping at Jaskier's doublet.

"Hey, no, what's happening, why are you-- Geralt, what did I say?" He asks, but Geralt dodges his hands, scoots backwards, eyes trained on the floor.

_Remove it,_

_Fix it,_

_Fix_ you,

The old words echo in his mind, and whatever little bubble of hope had been growing in him, building since that first confession, bursts. _He wants me to get rid of it, if we're to keep traveling together,_ he thinks despondently. Why else would he bring up Yen now? She a sorceress, she'd know how to do it. And it makes sense, it really does, so he can't blame Jaskier. It's not like Geralt would be comfortable if he found out that a... a noonwraith, or a bruxa had grown obsessed with him, so it-- it makes sense. And he always knew he was going to find the limit, someday, so why he kept pushing is anyone's guess. It makes no sense, why... _why did I keep pushing? Why did I keep telling him more? Why am I always so selfish, why couldn't I just be fucking satisfied with what I had? Stupid, stupid,_ stupid--

"Please, just tell me what I said." Jaskier sounds so sad, hand hanging uselessly in the air, still attempting to reach for him, even with how he was rebuffed.

"I know," and he has to pause here, take a deep breath. Where the truth had started dropping from his lips so easily before, suddenly it's nearly impossible to dredge up, the words fighting him every step of the way, "I know I'm a monster." Distantly he hears Jaskier's distressed _no,_ but he pressed onward anyway. "It's fine, you don't need to lie to make me feel better. I know what I am, what I was made for, but..."

He clears his throat against a sudden tightness, bows his head a little further. "I know things like me shouldn't feel like this, but... I... I don't want to stop. Don't... _please,_ don't make me do this, don't make me choose between loving you and being near you." He hears a gasp and he flinches a little at the sound, cringing to himself, curling in on himself. "I'm sorry, I know it must feel awful to hear that from something like me, but I just--! We don't have to... we don't have to go to Yen, we don't have to remove it, because I swear, I can..." He's aware that Jaskier's saying something, but it's distant and indistinct over the sound of his own heartbeat in his ears, a rushing, pounding rhythm the drowns out all others, and the words are tumbling out of him faster and faster, a flood that he can't stop. He just knows, he has to say everything he can before Jaskier leaves. "I can be good. I can do better, I swear, I'll... I'll never touch you again, or pull you into my bedroll, or even _look_ at you wrong, everything will go back to normal and I'll drink my tea and you'll... you'd never even be able to tell, so please don't... don't make me..."

Jaskier says his name, trying to get his attention, but-- _no, no, not yet, don't say it yet, don't leave yet,_ Geralt thinks desperately, shrinking back like a wounded animal. "I'll be better," he insists, "I'll be better, I'll hide it better, no more confessions or lingering stares, you won't have to buy me gifts or even-- even smile so much, or anything, just. Just stay? Please? I can't imagine the Path without you anymore, I--"

He makes a distressed noise in the back of his throat when he realizes what had come out of his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that part. "I mean, I-- I'm not trying to, to pressure you or, or force you, I swear, I... I take it all back, you can leave if you want, it's... it's your choice... I won't try to keep you..."

" _Geralt!_ " Jaskier says sharply, cutting through Geralt's ramblings. _Here it is,_ he thinks weakly, shoulders slumping in defeat as his fight leaves him, _he's leaving. He going. I did it, I ruined it, I finally pushed him away._ He can't find it in himself to meet Jaskier's eyes, but he does look up a bit, and-- when had he gotten so close? Kneeling right in front of Geralt. He reaches out and Geralt flinches away, hard. He persists, though, cups Geralt's cheek so gently, murmurs, "Geralt... oh _Geralt_... I wish you would."

Geralt's brow furrows in confusion. "Keep me," he explains softly, "I wish you would keep me."

"I don't..." Geralt flounders, looking lost. "I don't understand."

"My dear heart," Jaskier's thumb brushes against Geralt's cheekbone, slowly swiping back and forth. Geralt can feel the callous there. "I've been in love with you since I was eighteen."

Geralt shakes his head, feels his breath hitch in his chest. "That's not possible, you can't..." He reaches up with his gloved hand and places it over Jaskier's, slots their fingers together. Even through the leather, he can feel the heat from Jaskier's skin, and it's-- it's almost too much. "I'm a monster. You only have to look into my eyes to see that."

"Darling, you're not a monster," Jaskier smiles softly as he meets Geralt's gaze with ease, "and I _love_ your eyes."

A pained noise rips it's way out of Geralt's throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut, turns away from Jaskier's knowing gaze to hide his face in Jaskier's palm. _It's not real,_ he thinks, gripping Jaskier's hand tighter, _it can't be, I'm dreaming, or I died, or..._ "Oh," Jaskier croons, "don't hide from me, darling..."

Geralt shakes his head. "Not... I'm not... _darling._ " He spits the word out roughly.

"You are to me." Jaskier says simply, though whatever his expression might betray, Geralt can't see it, hidden as he is.

He keens, turns his face further into Jaskier's palm. "You shouldn't-- I... I'm not _supposed_ to be..." He tilts his head just so, so his hair falls in his face, further obscuring him from view.

"But you are," he says gently, "and I'll keep saying it until you believe me." Geralt doesn't respond, and he sighs, slips his hand down, recups Geralt's cheek, forces his head back up. Geralt keeps his eyes shut tight, though, breath coming out in shallow little huffs. "Please look at me?" Jaskier asks, and Geralt shakes his head, almost vehemently. "Why not?"

"Because--" he says weakly, shoulders slumping, "you'll finally come to your senses. And you'll leave."

"I won't, I swear... let me prove it to you." Geralt can feel him shuffle closer, until their knees press together. "Please look at me."

Geralt swallows hard. He can feel his heart in his throat, and everything in him is screaming that this is a bad idea, that he shouldn't, but...

well. He was always bad at saying no to Jaskier.

Slowly, slowly, his eyes flutter open. 

"There you are." Jaskier says, quiet, fond, almost a little teasing. He drinks in the sight, studying them, and Geralt can't stop the little hitch in his breath at the intensity of it. It leaves him feeling weak, flayed open and vulnerable, and for once, he can't look away. He watches, entranced, as Jaskier leans in slow, so slow, and kisses him on the mouth.

It's light, chaste, just the press of their lips together, but it makes Geralt's world tilt anyway. He stares forward, almost uncomprehending, even as Jaskier's eyes flutter shut. Studies his face as he leans into it, gives a bit more pressure, then pulls away just a hair, breathes out a contented sigh across Geralt's mouth. He tilts his head forward, rests his forehead against Geralt's, just sharing air with him.

It feels-- surreal. Dreamlike. Geralt blinks slowly, hand still on Jaskier's, breathing with him. "I only suggested Yennefer because I thought you were saying you loved _her._ " He says softly. "I was trying to suggest we find her and tell her how you felt. I never meant to imply we should-- _remove_ \--" He nuzzles forward a little, bumping their noses together affectionately. "You're perfect, darling... I just thought there was no way you could want _me._ "

Which is almost too much for Geralt's brain to process because-- _perfect?_ And... him, not want _Jaskier?_ And... and Jaskier wants _him?_ "Jaskier..." His voice is rough, thick with emotion. He reaches out slowly, hesitantly, with his free hand. His ungloved hand. It hovers near Jaskier's neck-- not touching yet, just... near. "Can I?" He asks, so quietly, his voice a tiny, fragile thing.

"Of course you can." Jaskier says, smiling wide enough the corners of his eyes crinkle with it. 

Geralt's hand finally-- finally-- closes the distance, curling around the back of Jaskier's neck. The skin there is warm and soft under Geralt's sword calloused hands, and it makes him shiver, being allowed to touch somewhere so vulnerable. He pulls gently, and Jaskier goes willingly, meeting him in the middle. He presses forward, firm, insistent, and Jaskier opens for him, lips parting with ease.

As their lips meet for a second time, it's like reality comes crashing into Geralt full-force. This is real-- it's really happening, Jaskier is kissing him, Jaskier _loves_ him. He makes a punched out sound as he grabs Jaskier a little tighter, pulls him closer, heart clenching painfully in his chest. _I love you,_ and he's not sure if he just thinks it or if he says it into the kiss, but Jaskier groans either way, presses in closer himself, _I love you, I love you._

Geralt nips at his lower lip, then tongues the spot apologetically before diving in deeper, pulling a happy sound from the man in his hands. It isn't enough-- the warmth and the passion in his chest haven't lessened for all that he's let them out, all he's confessed, and now that he's had a taste of Jaskier, he wants to hear more, wants to taste more, wants Jaskier even closer. His hand on the back of Jaskier's neck slides up, tangles itself in the hair at his nape, grips it tight, and he gets another happy moan in response as Jaskier melts in his arms.

He lets go of Jaskier's hand to grab at his hips instead, hauling the bard forward. Jaskier responds enthusiastically, clambering into Geralt's lap and throwing his arms around Geralt's shoulders, using them as leverage to get fully seated. "Geralt," he says, "Geralt," but whatever he was going to say is forgotten instantly as Geralt leans in and presses a kiss to his jaw, nipping the skin gently. Jaskier lets out a little breathless _oh,_ and he tilts his head back, gives Geralt more room. He trails kisses up and down Jaskier's neck, presses them into the underside of his jaw, into the spot right behind his ear, until the air is alive with gasps and a gentle litany of "Geralt, Geralt, Geralt."

And still, it isn't enough. He gets the feeling it might never be enough, as he tilts Jaskier's head back down, dives back in to reclaim his lips, curls his tongue inside Jaskier's mouth the same way it curled around the truth and the taste of flowers, and with the way Jaskier paws at him, grabs at the back of his neck, at his shoulders, the way his tongue presses against Geralt's palate like it wants to know every inch of him-- he gets the feeling it might be the same way for Jaskier. It's a heady thought, one that has his hand sliding around from Jaskier's hip to the small of his back, tugging him that much closer, and Jaskier groans with delight.

Time blurs and stretches around them, and when Jaskier starts to pull away, it could be minutes or hours later for all Geralt's aware of it. He chases after Jaskier's mouth, leaning forward, and Jaskier places a hand on his chest to keep him there. "We-- we should really go back soon..." He mumbles, leaning back in to nuzzle Geralt's cheek. "Let the ealdorman know about the contract... maybe go to the local inn... order a nice, hot bath..." His voice dips a little lower, and Geralt groans, grips Jaskier's neck tighter.

"Soon," he agrees, trailing kisses from Jaskier's cheek to the corner of his mouth, "Just-- just a little bit longer..."

"Yeah," Jaskier nods, tilting his head back in to recapture Geralt's lips, "just a little more..."

* * *

"Is that why you suggested bathing in shifts at that waterfall?"

Jaskier trails his hand up and down Geralt's arm, distracting even through his shirt. He'd spent a few extra crowns on a room with a single, larger bed, but they still ended up in the center, right up against each other, laying on their sides, face to face. He's not entirely sure why he bothered with the luxury, since they obviously didn't need the space, other than a vague sense of _Jaskier deserved it._ He clears his throat, dutifully lowers his eyes. "I... I didn't want to take advantage. I tried not to look, either."

Jaskier lights up. "You!" He exclaims, grabbing Geralt's face so he can deposit a kiss on his forehead. "You delightful, lovely, foolish _gentleman._ " He says, grinning from ear to ear.

Geralt flounders a little, tries to swat Jaskier away. "No, I just-- I didn't want to betray your trust... it wouldn't have been right." He insists.

He redoubles his efforts, depositing extra pecks along the bridge of Geralt's nose and his cheekbones in retaliation for being shooed away. "Nope, hush, you're the sweetest man on the _entire_ continent. Absolutely adorable. I know you must've seen at least some of me, though, so I have to wonder..." His grin turns slightly lecherous, and he raises a brow suggestively, "did you like what you saw?"

Geralt bites the inside of his cheek for a moment. "I... I almost lost control," he admits, "I even took a step towards you, before a coughing fit overtook me. You were just so beautiful..."

Jaskier groans and bites his lip, positively glowing in light of this newfound information. He winds the chain of Geralt's medallion around his fingers a few times and tugs it gently. Heat pools in Geralt's stomach at the action. "Wish you had..." Jaskier says huskily.

"Would never, not if you didn't want me." Geralt insists, placing his hand over Jaskier's.

"But I did want you." Jaskier counters, slowly sliding his leg up, trailing it over Geralt's before hooking it over Geralt's hip. "Part of why I wanted that waterfall so badly-- wanted to see you under it."

"Oh," Geralt mumbles, his hand mirroring Jaskier's little journey, trailing down Jaskier's side to settle on his hip.

"Yeah, _oh,_ " Jaskier says with a laugh. "D'you think, maybe, one day, we could go back?" 

"Ah..." Geralt leans in a little closer, eyes half lidded. "Can't-- can't make any promises that we'd be able to find it again, but... no reason we couldn't double back sometime, if you'd like..."

"Mmm, I'd _very_ much like," He mumbles, nudging their noses together, "would you?"

It takes Geralt a moment to process he's been asked something. "Would I what?"

Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly and tilts his head back enough to study Geralt's expression. "Go back, silly. Would you like to do that?"

"I want to do whatever you want to do." He says with a shrug. "Whatever you're comfortable with."

"No, no," Jaskier says firmly, placing his hand on Geralt's chest and scooting back an inch or so, "I'm absolutely heading this off at the pass, right now. None of that. What _I_ want is to know what _you_ want. You're not--" Jaskier makes a frustrated noise, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not going to run for the hills, and you're allowed to want things. So none of that martyr nonsense. What does Geralt of Rivia like?"

He stares at Jaskier's encouraging little smile for a long moment, considering. His stomach squirms a little, but after a beat, he says hesitantly, "I... I like it when you smile." An even larger grin overtakes Jaskier's expression, bright and unrestrained, and Geralt's chest gets warm at the sight. He smiles back. "Yeah, just like that." He thinks for a moment, then adds, "I like it when you get drunk. Not--" Jaskier raises a brow, and he rushes to explain, "not like-- you get even happier. Looser. You have this... this specific little giggle that you only make when you're drunk. I like it."

"So, you like my smile and my laugh. That's lovely," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind Geralt's ear, "but what do you _like_? You can tell me."

He chews on his lip for a moment, eyes raking down Jaskier's figure. "I liked... you grabbing my medallion." He admits.

"Oh yeah?" Jaskier says, a little teasing, but not meanly. He's got a playful sort of look in his eye as he reaches out and gets his fingers tangled in the chain again, gives it an experimental tug. Geralt can feel his eyes go half-lidded, and he nods.

"Yeah." He says. After a moments deliberation, he adds, "I like your hands." Jaskier shivers under his gaze, and his voice drops an octave. "I like it when you say my name."

" _Geralt,_ " he says, almost surprised, definitely interested. 

"Just like that," he repeats, voice a little rough, and pulls Jaskier in closer. Jaskier isn't exactly worked up yet, but he's interested, watching Geralt with wide eyes. "I like you in my lap." He says, voice gravel-low, and that earns him a full-body shudder.

"Oh," it's small, little more than a gasp, "oh, my witcher, you're an absolute _tease._ " He says, sounding delighted.

"As if you're any better." Geralt says, pressing their foreheads together.

"I'm really not." His eyes glitter mischievously, and he hooks his leg a little higher, tugs Geralt in a little closer.

After a moment, Geralt mumbles, "...I am, by the way."

"What, a tease?" Jaskier asks casually.

"No," he says, "yours. Your witcher."

Jaskier looks startled, then he smiles wider. "I have turned you into a sap, haven't I?"

"You have." He confirms, smiling softly, nuzzling against Jaskier's cheek. "Jaskier... _my_ Jaskier..."

Jaskier groans happily, tugging on the medallion. "Do-- do that again, call me yours again." He says, somehow breathy and demanding all at once, and as Geralt laughs softly, as he leans the rest of the way in to press kiss after kiss against Jaskier's lips, he obliges, again, and again, and again.


	12. Epilogue

A few hours pass much the same, the two just laying in bed, tangled up in each other.

Jaskier's hand comes up and he trails his fingers lightly across Geralt's jaw, as if mapping him out, and Geralt shivers at the barely-there contact, leans into it like a cat, skin hungry for Jaskier's touch. Jaskier smiles, and every word has their lips brushing together as he says, "Honestly, Geralt," and his tone is fond, but his voice is so hushed, like he doesn't want to break whatever fragile moment they've found themselves in, "I'm starting to think you have a greater flair for the dramatic than even _I_ do."

Geralt laughs and bumps their noses together, squeezes him tighter around the waist just because he can, just to feel their bodies press even closer. "Don't know about that... I find it hard to believe you'd let _anyone_ upstage you."

"Mmm, guess I'll just have to up the ante, then, won't I?" Jaskier says playfully, eyes twinkling, and Geralt groans.

"Please don't," he says, "at least not for another month. I've used up my drama quota."

"Fine," Jaskier replies airily, "but only because I'm such a generous man. Let it never be said that I'm a thoughtless lover."

"Perish the thought." Geralt says sarcastically, and earns himself a gentle thwap on the shoulder. 

"Don't be rude." He says, but he keeps his hand where it landed on Geralt's shoulder, feeling the muscle there before sliding it up, along the column of his throat. He settles it in Geralt's hair, cradling the back of his head gently. "Now come, kiss me more. I'm almost finished composing a ballad about a witcher with a garden of love growing in his lungs."

Geralt huffs, but it's rather ineffective, because he's smiling like a lovesick fool all the while. He goes easily when Jaskier pushes, pressing a light peck against Jaskier's lips. "You will _not._ " He says firmly.

Jaskier's eyes glitter at the challenge. "Just you try and stop me."

* * *

The next morning, when Geralt awakes, everything's gone back to feeling surreal again. It doesn't feel possible, like maybe the night before was a fluke or a dream, or-- if it was reality-- like this thing between them is a bubble, fit to burst any second. Like one wrong move and Jaskier will retreat, rescind all previous claims.

 _Maybe he got his fill already. And he could always change his mind, could always decide he's had enough. Enough of trying, enough of this, enough of... me..._ Geralt ducks his head a bit at that thought, stares down at the road ahead. Anxiety hounds his steps, a spiral of thoughts about the million ways it could go wrong, the ways he might push too hard and end up alone... again. But then he glances over, and he sees Jaskier, and he wants... he wants to _try._ He reaches out and hesitantly presses their hands together.

It's juvenile-- both as an action, and how nervous it makes him. He's half convinced he'll get a scoff, perhaps get mocked for the childish nature of it, for his own nerves in the face of such a pedestrian activity, his sudden shyness... but Jaskier just lights up like the sun, squeezes his hand back tight like it's all he's ever wanted from them walking together, side by side. Geralt has to remind himself that Jaskier isn't cruel like that. _Jaskier would at least have more tact,_ he thinks wryly as some of the tension in his stomach uncoils, and maybe it is childish and silly, but his chest gets warm in response to Jaskier's utter glee, and he feels the beginnings of a smile curl around his lips, and... and maybe, for now, things will be fine.

Like a flower cupped in the palm of your hand, it's a little fragile, but it's lovely all the same.

* * *

The weeks pass, and they find themselves in an inn like any other.

The bed is lumpy, and the sheets are a touch on the stiff side, but the morning light that filters in is soft in that way it only ever is on sleepy mornings in-- never harsh enough to make you squint, yet fills and brightens the whole room anyway, warm without being stifling, gentle and vaguely nostalgic. The kind of quality of light painters across the continent try to capture, to varying degrees of success. For once, Jaskier is awake before Geralt-- or is, at least, _more_ awake than Geralt is-- and he takes the time to bask in the moment, to appreciate Geralt's growing attempts to be somewhat bolder.

He has a habit of asking before each touch, as if his touch is a frightening thing. Permission and consent are important, of course, and Jaskier deeply appreciates both, but Geralt had a tendency to act like any casual intimacy was a burden he was reluctant to shoulder onto another. Like a simple kiss would be enough to make Jaskier cringe away, make him call the whole thing off. Like it was intrinsically unwanted.

So the current weight of Geralt's body slung across his-- the possessive curl of Geralt's arm around his waist, the casual way Geralt's hooked his leg over Jaskier's hips, Geralt's breath hot against his neck-- has him aglow with joy. He has wished, and will continue to wish, that he could magic all that pain away somehow, throw out every instinct that makes Geralt's mind twist every action into something to agonize over or feel guilty about, reach back through time and have _strong words_ with everyone who so vehemently shunned him or shied from his hands needlessly... but right now he's warm and safe and his lovely, brave witcher is nosing into his hair-- not quite awake or asleep at the moment, just dozing, enjoying the peace-- and his heart feels fit to burst.

So, of course, a knock comes to startle them out of their early morning reverie. Geralt groans and presses his face fully into Jaskier's hair. There's a pause, and Geralt mumbles, "Maybe they'll just go away..."

There's another knock, sharper than the last one. Jaskier sighs, runs a hand up and down the length of Geralt's arm almost mournfully. It was such a _nice_ morning... "We should really get that." He says, voice thick with regret.

"I paid for a full day," Geralt grouses, "the innkeeper can _absolutely_ fuck off."

Jaskier laughs. "Might not be the innkeep, dear. Could be something important... c'mon, let me up." He lightly pats Geralt's arm and tries to scoot sideways. There's another rapid series of knocks, louder and heavier, as if whoever's on the other side is getting impatient.

Geralt tightens his grip, tugs Jaskier back in. "Better be important, this early..." He grumbles, but then he releases his grip with an equally grumbly, _fine,_ muttered under his breath.

"Thank you, darling, I'm sure it's _such_ a burden for you to lay in bed while _I_ get up and do things." He rolls his eyes as he drops a kiss to Geralt's forehead, then slides out of bed.

"It is, actually." Which is an admission that he doesn't want Jaskier to leave, so it's in turn an admission that he doesn't want to stop cuddling, which means it's practically Geralt asking _please can we cuddle more,_ and what's Jaskier supposed to do in the face of that, other than kiss the man silly? He presses one knee into the bed and leans over to deposit three kisses along Geralt's forehead. He swats Jaskier away, face scrunching up under the onslaught, but Jaskier is relentless, pressing a few extra into the furrow between Geralt's brows for good measure. " _Quit it._ " He complains, leaning back to try and get out of range.

Three loud bangs ring out in quick succession, and Jaskier finally calls out "Coming!" Then, as an aside, he adds "So impatient." Geralt snorts and rolls onto his back to watch Jaskier as he makes his way over to answer the door. 

"Whoever they are," he calls out as Jaskier cracks the door open, "tell them to fuck off and come back to _bed,_ Blue jay."

Jaskier laughs, high and delighted. "Well, I'm afraid you heard the man, so--" He stops suddenly, a rather unattractive sound of shock working its way out of his throat. Geralt's about to ask what's wrong when he hears a sardonic _Blue jay?_

He bolts straight up in bed. " _Yen?_ " He says, and definitely does not squeak in the slightest, even as she breezes into the room. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I came to deliver more tea, but I suppose that won't be necessary anymore, hm?" She crosses her arms over her chest, looking rather smug. "How long did this development take, then?"

Geralt rubs the back of his neck uncomfortably. "Ah... about... a month and a half ago, maybe?"

Her brow twitches in irritation. "A month-- are you _serious?_ " Her eyes roll heavenwards as she lets out what might be the most put-upon sigh known to man. "Do you know how hard it was to procure some of those ingredients? That's a month and a half of my tea gone to waste... that tea is _expensive,_ you know, to make and to buy. Not to mention my efforts, all for naught. You really couldn't have gotten together sooner and saved me the trouble? Why must you two always be so damned dramatic?"

"Well," Jaskier pipes up, wandering over to the bed, "to be entirely fair to us. Makes for excellent ballads, being so... _dramatic._ " He falls backwards, sprawling sideways across Geralt's lap with an arm thrown over his eyes. It's mostly meant as a joke, and he fully expects to get shoved off, maybe some rolled eyes as well, but instead Geralt simply wraps an arm around his waist and ducks his head down, hiding in Jaskier's shoulder.

Jaskier's face lights up in delight, and he gets that eye roll he expected, though out of Yennefer instead of Geralt. "Yes, yes, very happy for the lovely couple. Now could you put on some shirts so we can have breakfast?"

* * *

A month or so later, Geralt presents Jaskier with a box. "You don't-- you don't have to like it," he says nervously, "but I just thought..."

Inside is a pendant of sorts. Two pieces of glass, sandwiched together, bound together by an outer ring of metal and strung on a chain. Between the glass, fixed in place and preserved, is a pressed flower. A little, unassuming buttercup. 

Jaskier nearly screams with delight and tackles Geralt onto the bed, the necklace gripped tightly in his fist.

"How are you," he asks, tears welling in his eyes as he drowns Geralt in kisses, "the fucking-- sweetest, kindest, most amazing man on this entire--" his breath hitches a little as the metal chain digs into his palm, reminding him of what he held, of the physical proof of Geralt's love, the piece of his affections that Jaskier would now have, forever. "Entire _plane_ of _existence?_ "

"I-- I'm not--" Geralt says weakly, trying to tilt his head away from Jaskier's onslaught, cheeks pink with embarrassment. "I just thought you'd like..."

"And I _do_ like, I... oh _Geralt..._ " He pulls away a bit, presses the necklace into Geralt's hand. "Put it on me?"

Geralt's hands shake a little as they work the clasp, and Jaskier sits up straighter so he can admire it a bit better. It rests gently against his breast bone, and for a moment, Jaskier forgets how to breathe. The gesture-- the thought-- all the money and effort that must've gone into getting this made... did Geralt come up with the design himself, or did he work with some sort of jeweler? How long had he been sitting on the idea, but unable to do anything about it, because they weren't in the right place or didn't have enough coin? The sensation of Geralt's calloused hands fastening it so carefully behind his head. This physical manifestation of his _love_ that Jaskier can carry forever, now... it's all too much. 

Jaskier launches himself forward, clinging to Geralt almost desperately, and he responds in kind, wrapping his arms around Jaskier in a comforting embrace. "I'm-- I'm glad you like it that much." He says, a touch awkwardly.

"I love it," Jaskier insists, "I _love_ it." And then there's silence.

Something grows in Jaskier's chest, a crushing, boundless feeling, it sits heavy behind his ribs and wraps an iron grip around his lungs, his heart, his limbs feel weighed down with it. He tries to put a name to it, but nothing seems big enough for the sensation, the feeling settling into him, into his bones, deep as any abyss. This nameless thing rears its head and leaves him breathless, wanting.

"Geralt," he says, pressing in closer, "I love you."

"I know," Geralt replies, squeezing tighter, "I--"

"No," Jaskier cuts him off, because the words aren't _big_ enough, "you don't-- Geralt, I _love you._ "

There's a desperation in his tone, and somehow, Geralt understands. He nods a little, an acknowledgement of everything Jaskier wants to say but can't because he doesn't know how to, and Jaskier buries his face in the crook of Geralt's neck.

"I love you so much, I... I can't even talk about it. What words am I to use? Lovely, as if it's not the most pedestrian of compliments? Gorgeous, alluring, exquisite, as if all you are is something to be beheld? Strong, daring, brave, as if you were just a useful companion and not-- what word could possibly encompass you? What combination could even _approach..._ and yet, that's not even my issue, because that's not... it's what I _feel_ for you. I'm a _bard,_ yet all my words leave me when I try to describe it. You steal my voice, my words, right from my lips..."

There's a heavy beat for a moment, a thick silence, and Jaskier can feel Geralt swallow hard, can feel those big, calloused hands stroking up and down his sides comfortingly.

"You could just say I leave you speechless."

Jaskier laughs, props his chin up on his palm, his elbow digging into the pillow, right beside Geralt's head, in order to smile down at him. "I suppose I could, but where would be the art in that, hmm? The _drama,_ the suspense, the wordsmithing. Hardly suited for a poet, to resort to such banalities when a more elegant option is available. Why, they'd wonder if I was an artist at all."

"Couldn't have that." Geralt says mock-seriously, though his eyes crinkle a little at the corner, giving him away.

"Absolutely not." Jaskier replies. His eyes are sparkling with glee, but his smile is something softer, fonder. "Besides, that wouldn't do it justice. It's not a simple sore throat. Speechless... there's room for interpretation in that. Sometimes rude ealdormen leave me speechless, and that's about the indignity of their behavior. With you, it's... all-encompassing, and it's beautiful, and it doesn't just leave me without words, it's like..." His eyes light up as the idea comes to him, and he sits up a little more to cup Geralt's face in his hands. "It's like the words don't even _exist._ It's like looking in a dictionary and finding it blank. The words to describe you are like smoke, vague and distant and indistinct, slipping through my fingers. Never solid, never _real..._ I half expect to explore some ruins with you someday, open an old tome and find all the words for it laid out before me, forgotten and deep and splendid, cast aside because they were too _big,_ too _much,_ for the rest of the world, but other times that seems impossible, because--" 

"Because ours is the first and the best? The deepest and the truest?" Geralt sounds faintly amused, but there's a shyness about him, and he turns his face into Jaskier's palm, hiding as always. "As all wordsmiths think." He says, a little teasing smile on his lips, eyebrow quirked upward.

"Well, yes," Jaskier allows, "but the thing is," he wets his lips, smile growing even wider, "that they were all wrong and I'm right."

That startles a laugh out of Geralt. "Oh, is that so?"

"It is." Jaskier insists. "They thought-- if you'll excuse the paltry metaphor-- that they were in the ocean, when really they were in puddles."

"And we're the ocean." Geralt sounds slightly skeptical, and Jaskier shakes his head.

"No," he says, thumbs sweeping over Geralt's cheekbones affectionately, "we're the sky. They weren't thinking big enough, deep enough. Couldn't even conceive of it."

Geralt rolls his eyes a little at that, but he forgets Jaskier is sitting on his chest, can feel the way his breath hitches ever so slightly. "Well," he says, reaching up to hold Jaskier's wrist in place, pressing a kiss into his open palm, "I suppose you better start inventing words, then."

* * *

Months pass. Frost creeps along the ground, but warmth blooms in Geralt's chest anyway.

They sit near a fire, Jaskier pressed in close against Geralt's side, hands extended to soak up as much heat as possible. He flips them, so the flames warm the back as well, then flips them again as the chill starts curling against his palms-- such an ordinary, mundane action, but something about it makes Geralt's stomach twist itself into happy little knots. He reaches out to wrap an arm around Jaskier's shoulders, and Jaskier sighs happily, melting into his side.

"I've been thinking." Geralt's fingers twist in Jaskier's doublet, and he glances away, avoiding Jaskier's gaze. "...We don't have to, of course..."

"What is it, darling?" Jaskier turns towards him and places a hand on his knee, looking up at him curiously.

"Well... it's getting colder."

He hums in the affirmative. "So it is."

"And I was just thinking you might... that _I'd_ like it if you..." He clears his throat awkwardly. When he glances over, Jaskier has this sweet little encouraging smile, and he leans in a little closer as if to say _go on, I'm listening,_ and maybe it's silly, but Geralt realizes he wants to look Jaskier in the eye for this. It feels... important, somehow. He turns as well, just a bit, and fixes his eyes on Jaskier's.

It's always hard, meeting Jaskier's eyes. It feels like he's being stripped bare, like Jaskier can-- can see _into_ him, somehow. It's feels too intimate, too vulnerable, but this is important. It warrants the intimacy, even if it makes Geralt want to curl up in the corner and never look at anyone ever again. And, fuck, Jaskier's still waiting for him to _say_ something, brow cocked curiously, a little tilt to his head, so Geralt takes a deep breath in and asks, "Will you come with me this winter? To Kaer Morhen?"

Jaskier gasps, hand flying to his mouth in shock. "You-- you really want...?"

"You don't have to, of course." He reassures quickly, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. He breaks eye contact as well, glancing to the side. "Just an idea--"

He's cut off suddenly by an armful of happy bard, peppering his face with kisses and throwing his arms around Geralt's neck while simultaneously trying to wiggle into his lap. "Of course," he exclaims in delight, "of _course_ I will!"

Geralt weathers the storm of Jaskier's insistent affections, pulling the man more solidly into his lap and wrapping an arm around his waist to steady him. He's learned by now that there's no real use hiding his face when Jaskier gets like this-- the kisses just become even more insistent, pressed into whatever open skin is available. Secretly, there's also something nice about knowing he inspired such joy, and as he smiles fondly, he admits to himself that he maybe does a bit more than simply _weather_ Jaskier's kisses.

"Do you really mean it?" Jaskier leans back, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, lit up with excitement, and Geralt has to take a moment, knocked sideways by a sudden rush of affection for the man in his arms. "I know it's your place, that it's-- it's not like a lot of outsiders are welcome... and you'd have to introduce me to everyone else who winters there, too. You... you really want me to come along?"

"Always." He replies, a little breathlessly. He leans in until they're flush together, rests his forehead against Jaskier's. "Always."

* * *

Later that winter, in the stone walls of the old fortress, sat in front of a large hearth and crackling fire, Geralt leans in closer to Jaskier and says "I've been thinking."

Jaskier's eyes light up, and he leans in a little closer as well. "Oh? How exciting... worked out pretty well the last time you did that. I am rather enjoying Kaer Morhen."

Geralt rolls his eyes goodnaturedly. "Do you want to hear it or not?"

Jaskier laughs and cozies up to his side as the logs crackle before them. "I'm so _very_ sorry dearest. You have plenty of good ideas-- at _least_ three a day." He says teasingly. Geralt pinches his side in retaliation, and he lets out a little yelp. "Alright, alright, I'll be nice." He concedes, and his tone pivots towards sincere as he lays a hand over Geralt's. "Seriously, though, what's on your mind?"

"We don't have to," he says carefully, slotting their fingers together, "and it's a ways out, so you don't have to agree to anything yet. But... since we've been spending this winter here, at my home... maybe next year I could... come with you, instead. To Oxenfurt." He hastily adds, "Not to invite myself along, of course, it's up to you, just... just an idea."

"Oh," Jaskier twists around, gripping his hand tighter and staring up at him, face lit up with excitement, "oh that would be _incredible!_ I could show you everything, and introduce you to all my friends from school, maybe hold a few performances, and..." He trails off and screws up his face a bit. "Are you sure you wouldn't get bored there?"

Geralt shrugs, smiling fondly. "I've been in worse places for winter. I really doubt it... plus, you'd be there." He reaches out and sweeps some of Jaskier's hair behind his ear, and he melts into the touch, relaxing into Geralt's hand with a lovesick expression on his face.

"Ugh," Lambert rounds the corner, only to stop dead in his tracks and wrinkle his nose in disgust, "are you two seriously hogging the _entire_ fireplace to be sappy and make moony eyes at each other?"

"Ignore him," Geralt replies, not taking his eyes off Jaskier, "he's just grumpy because he can't handle the cold very well."

"Hey!"

* * *

Winter changes to spring, and spring onward, as seasons are wont to do. They do end up going to Oxenfurt the next year-- Geralt with a few new scars and Jaskier with a rather impressive ballad about the katakan that gave them under their belts. Jaskier's eyes shine with excitement as he drags Geralt to every corner of the university, pointing out trees he liked to practice under, and alcoves perfect for ducking class in, and-- on a few memorable occasions-- the various closets and empty rooms that were the unofficial official best hook up spots.

At night, when the world is cold and dark, he presses Jaskier into their bed, and presses kisses into Jaskier, leaving behind a trail of fire that chases away the chill on his skin. And afterwords, when they're both tired and sore and panting, Jaskier's pendant resting on his chest and glittering in the candlelight, Geralt leans in, presses his cheek against Jaskier's shoulder. "I never thought I'd have this." He admits quietly.

"Me?" Jaskier asks, reaching out to brush Geralt's hair out of his face.

He hms softly. Shrugs a little. "Anyone." 

Jaskier makes a little wounded noise. "Oh, _darling..._ " He says gently, rearranges them so Geralt's resting in the crook of his arm instead, pressed against his chest, so his fingers can run through Geralt's hair with ease, so he can hold his witcher closer.

Geralt closes his eyes, leans into the touch. "Never thought I'd get to have any of it." His hand rests on Jaskier's stomach, big and warm and heavy. He stares at it through half-lidded eyes. "I keep expecting things to change. The feelings to fade."

The hand in his hair pauses in its journey. "Have they?" Jaskier's voice is surprisingly neutral-- more curious than anything.

Geralt tilts his head up, looks Jaskier right in the eye. "No," he says, "not one bit. I feel like I'm drowning in it, Jask."

Jaskier's smile is blinding. "Oh, my dearest..." He says fondly as he tugs Geralt up to press kiss after kiss to his lips. 

" _Blue jay..._ " Geralt sighs, leans into each one like he's coming up for air.

(After the candles have been blown out, when Geralt is curled against Jaskier's side, he hears "Drowning in it, hmm?" Jaskier sounds lost in thought, like he's been hit with a spark of inspiration. "I think I could work with that... my love as vast as the sky, yours as deep as the ocean... something about the horizon when they meet... perhaps some imagery about stars reflecting on the water's surface..."

"Haven't we had this conversation before?" Geralt asks, resigning himself to the candles eventually being relit so Jaskier can write down his ideas before they flee.

"Yes, but it never made its way into a song." His fingers drum out a pattern on Geralt's shoulder, and Geralt can't help the smile that stretches across his face.

"I'm sure it'll make for a truly inspired ballad." He says, amusement laced through his tone.

Jaskier raises a brow, pulls away a little to study Geralt's face. "Are you mocking my bardic abilities?"

"Wouldn't dream of it." He says cheekily.

Jaskier pinches his shoulder lightly. "You're on thin ice." He warns.)

Geralt falls asleep by candlelight, to the sound of Jaskier's quill scratching against paper. He falls asleep warm and safe and happy, and for once, he's excited to see what the next day brings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it finally is!!! The final chapter... I'll be honest, I put it off as long as I could. I didn't want it to end, I love these boys so much now... they feel like a part of my life, I don't know what I'll do without them to write!! Haha. I'm so, so grateful you all stuck with me this far, and I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. 
> 
> As a bonus, I'm including an extra scene that I didn't think worked as The Finale, or whatever, BUT that is absolutely canon to my story. It'd take place a couple years after their first winter at Oxenfurt, probably. It'd go something like this:  
> At some point, years later, they bump into Henry and Orla again. They're all surprised to see each other again, and Jaskier is distributing hugs, Geralt handshakes. Eventually, a little rambunctious tyke is revealed to be theirs. "His mother died giving birth in our inn. True tragedy-- we never even got the poor lass's name. But, lucky for this little man, we were there to take care of him, raise him." 
> 
> "He's no replacement for Hammond, o'course," Henry cuts in, "but he's an amazing tyke in his own right."
> 
> "Another beautiful gift from the gods." Orla agrees.
> 
> "He's absolutely adorable," Jaskier says, "what's his name?"
> 
> Henry and Orla exchange a look, and then they answer, "Geralt."
> 
> Geralt inhales sharply, eyes gone wide in shock. "You--?"
> 
> "Well, his mother died before she could name him," they explain patiently, "and we could hardly name him after Hammond... we were hoping the name would help him take after you, somewhat. Kind, strong, dependable."
> 
> Emotions and thoughts swirl through Geralt faster than he can pin them down, and he feels unsteady on his feet. They thought that of him? He thinks of-- His own mother, giving him up so soon after birth, on purpose, by choice-- being named at Kaer Morhen-- and now there's a child named by loving parents, inspired by him. He thinks of everyone who spit at him, and ran, and called him diseased, and-- kind. Dependable. They thought he was-- they thought of him, and they thought of--
> 
> "You remembered my name?" He says weakly.
> 
> "Geralt." Jaskier sounds concerned, and he gently grabs Geralt's shoulder. "Geralt, you're..."
> 
> For some reason, he reaches up and rubs at his face. He's not entirely sure why he felt the urge to do so, but his body acts on its own, and when his hand comes away wet, he realizes he's been crying. "You... you remembered my name." he repeats.
> 
> "Well... of course we did. I mean, I said I would, didn't I?" Orla says. 
> 
> "And how could we forget what you'd done for us?" Henry adds.
> 
> Geralt reaches out suddenly and wraps his arms around both innkeepers to pull them into a tight hug. "Anything." He says firmly, voice thick with emotion. "You need _anything,_ just... just call on me. Any job. On the house."
> 
> "We couldn't--" Henry starts.
> 
> "I can afford one single contract for a godsdamned innkeeper, alright?" He says roughly, pulling them in tighter. "I can-- I can do that much, at least."
> 
> "Alright," Orla says gently, "if we find ourselves in need, we'll call on you first."
> 
> ======
> 
> I would've then included a bit of little Geralt wandering over and Our Geralt kneeling down to say hi, and mini!Ger handing him a horse toy and asking him to play, and Geralt very stoically holding a horse toy and having No Idea how playing works, but the little guy seems perfectly happy to just sort've, push Geralt's hand around how he wants, seems perfectly content for that to Be The Game. And Geralt just lets him, until mini!Geralt gets bored, and Geralt hands him his toy back and he scampers off. 
> 
> Henry and Orla invite him in for lunch, and old habits have him wanting to refuse, to avoid imposing any further, but he swallows it down and nods, and they smile, and everyone eats together and has a grand ole' time, and before they go, Jaskier gets him a strawberry tart, just like before.
> 
> ======
> 
> Also, I never got a chance to work it in, any attempts felt forced, BUT I was planning on having them speak Elder at some point(since they both canonically speak it), and I had decided on/picked out all the terms already, so in case anyone wants a glimpse, here's those scrapped plans as well:  
> En'ca minne = little love  
> me beag éan ceoil... shaente aen me = my little [songbird](borrowed from gaelic)... sing for me  
> me taedh = my bard/my poet  
> a'baeth me = kiss me  
> esseath elaine = you're beautiful
> 
> So that's.... that's that! Wow. Um. Again, thank you so much for reading and enjoying my work!!! I love y'all!!!!!!


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